


Advent Calendar 2016

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Cosplay, Depression, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Plays Rugby, Kidlock, Light Angst, M/M, Not very Christmas-ish calendar, Nothing heavy as it's Christmas, Potterlock, Semi-Public Sex, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 35,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: My Advent Calendar, 25 different stories, one at day, untill December 25th. Johnlock and minor Mystrade.Various genres. Rating and tags may change.





	1. Mycroft looks smug

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to use this [ bingo card](http://bbcthree.tumblr.com/post/134521580692/we-made-you-a-handy-sherlock-bingo-card-for) for prompts.  
> We start with: "Mycroft looks smug", Potterlock.

Leaning on one of the narrow windows of the Ravenclaw Tower, Sherlock, seventh year, continued to passed a finger on his lips, still incredulous: John Watson had kissed him.

John Watson, Gryffindor, seventh year too, beater of the Quidditch team, had kissed him in one of Herbology greenhouse.

And not a quick peck on the cheek, no, a real kiss with tongue and all, for Merlin pants!

His first kiss.

Since fourth year, Sherlock had realized that his feelings for John were far beyond a friendship, but he believed he had no hopes with him: John was the idol of half the girls at Hogwarts, brilliant and popular, while he was a taciturn boy, a genius in Potions and DADA, who never raised his head from books and scrolls, and never spoke to anyone. He considered a success already that John regarded him as his best friend.

By now they were at the last year at Hogwarts, and after that, their paths would be divided forever: John would have undertaken the professional Quidditch player's career, and he would become a Potions Master.

Soon, the years at Hogwarts would be a memory for both of them; maybe John would send some owl to him, occasionally, for Halloween or Christmas greetings, but soon he would marry, perhaps with Sarah, who was courting him so hard, and he would forget Sherlock forever.

Sherlock was resigned to see this happen, but that morning, something has been different: at breakfast, his brother Mycroft, who was at Hogwarts for the Graduate training in spells, had approached the Ravenclaw table to remind him, with niggling insistence, to write home, as mother had been waiting for an owl from him for more than a month; he had dismissed Mycroft with an annoyed grunt, drank his pumpkin juice, and suddenly the day had changed its perspective.

_ "What's wrong if I try to tell John what I feel?" _ he had thought, turning to look at his friend, who was taking muffins from a tray; John saw him and greeted him with a warm smile.

_ “Who says that John will reject me?” _

After all the Gryffindor loved to be in his company, and not just because Sherlock helped him to study: they always went to Hogsmeade together and when the weather was warm and sunny, they dined together on the banks of the lake. 

The pessimism that had always accompanied him in those years, now seemed ridiculous.

While Ravenclaw and Gryffindor went to the DADA class, Sarah asked John if he wanted to have lunch with him, but John said that probably he had to finish studying Potions, Sarah had insisted in a annoying way, but during the lesson she had been accidentally hit by a spell of another student, spell that had transformed her beautiful brown hair in a tangle of angry centipedes: it would take a few hours for her hair to go back to normal, so no lunch with John for her.

Finally, the Herbology professor had asked for two volunteers to catalog some magical seeds just arrived from the Middle East; Sherlock, surprising everyone, had volunteered and, as soon as he had looked in John direction, the Gryffindor had raised his hand too.

And here's how they’ve found themselves in the greenhouse, the two of them alone.

The moment seemed perfect, and Sherlock started to babble like an idiot: "The school is about to end, but I would love it if we continue to see each other... I know that you will be very busy, but if you could find a bit of time for me… I would find time for you, always, because I like..."

Finally that embarrassing delirium was interrupted by John’s lips pressed hard against his, then the Gryffindor had pushed him against the cold glass of the greenhouse and whispered, "I thought you'd never ask", before kissing him again as if he had been waiting for years for that, just like him.

John Watson was a fantastic kisser, he thought, running again a finger over his lips.

"Have you eaten something good, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, appearing behind him.

Sherlock blushed and leaned more out the window, hoping that the cold air of the evening would cool down his skin.

"What are you doing here?"

"A regular inspection of the dormitories, all the professor are allowed to do it."

"You're not a professor, you're just in training and you're here because without the Graduate training you can’t start to work for the Ministry of Magic. You had never been interested in enforcing the rules of the school before."

"I am pleased that falling in love has not totally fried your neurons, little brother."

“How…?"

"If you touch your lips a bit more, you’re going to consume them."

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and glared at him, expecting to be teased further, because that seemed to be Mycroft’s favourite hobby, but his brother just looked smug at Sherlock, as if the person designated by him had just been elected as Minister of Magic.

Which it would probably happened in a few years.

And why that smug face? Just because John and Sherlock had kissed? Mycroft looked almost like he made it happen.

Feeling that he was under the scrutiny of his little brother, Mycroft waved and left the dormitory.

"Mycroft! What did you do?" Sherlock asked, but his brother didn’t answer.

Sherlock threw himself on the bed, thinking: he couldn’t stop thinking about Mycroft look, but how could he had something to do with what had happened between him and John?

Unless…

That night Sherlock didn’t go to the Great Hall to dine, but took advantage of the fact that everyone was at dinner to sneak into his brother's room: the door was protected by some spells and it took a bit to him to overcome them, but in the end he succeeded, and went straight to the cabinet where Mycroft kept the ingredients for potions: some ingredients, used to prepare a very specific potion, were missing, and, on the cabinet bottom, he found a vial in which there were still a few drops of a golden liquid.

Mycroft came into the room just then and wasn’t surprised at all to find him there.

"I should take away fifty points from Ravenclaw for this intrusion, but your housemates hate you enough already."

"Felix Felicis!” Sherlock said, showing him the empty vial “You’ve poured it into my pumpkin juice this morning."

Mycroft didn’t deny, still looking smug.

"And it worked perfectly."

"Why did you do that?"

"You're my brother and I worry about you, constantly. I don’t want to see you pine forever for John Watson and maybe go down a bad road for this: it would be a huge hassle for me to manage."

"But it means that all that has happened between me and John was only because of the potion, it's fake!"

"Don’t be silly,” Mycroft snorted “From someone who wants to become a Potions Master I didn’t expect a statement like that."

Sherlock kept looking at him angrily, clutching the empty vial, and Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. 

"What kind of potion Felix Felicis is, Sherlock?"

"It's a luck catalyst" he grumbled.

"Exactly: it created the right conditions, gave you the boost you needed, but anything happened that you didn’t want, or that John didn’t want to do, you know that the potion doesn’t work that way."

Sherlock muttered something vague and Mycroft resumed his smugly face.

"I'll have to put up with that face for all my life, right?"

"Absolutely, little brother."

That’s why Sherlock was not exactly in a good mood as he walked back toward the Ravenclaw Tower, but there he found John who was waiting for him, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed.

"Hey, Sherlock, are you all right? Tonight I didn’t see you at dinner and I was worried about you."

"I'm fine now, yes," he answered, and he didn’t care he probably had a stupid grin on his face.

"Great. Then would you come with me?"

Sherlock held out his hand and followed John even without knowing where they were going.

"Come and Go Room" John murmured in his ear, winking.

And Sherlock thought that Mycroft’ smug look was a small price to pay in exchange for what he had achieved.


	2. Holmes bros unite

"After all this time you haven’t been able to develop a better strategy?" Sherlock asks, walking back and forth in the living room.

The situation is serious, very serious.

Mycroft, sitting in an armchair, hasn’t even touched the tea and pastries of Mrs. Hudson that are in front of him, and gives him a dark look.

"And what progress have you made in the meantime, brother?" Mycroft asks acidly.

"I told you my suggestions, but you discarded all of them."

"I can’t use my men at MI6 to simulate a terrorist attack, you know."

"I don’t see why not."

"Sherlock!"

"My idea is still smarter than yours: we both break a leg on the same day? What a coincidence! They aren’t stupid, they will understand immediately that’s a farce."

"If we were together and we happen to be in a car crash, it would be believable."

"We're never together, Mycroft, that’s what would made them suspicious."

"So what?"

Sherlock retrieves a map of London and sets it on the table.

"A bomb threat."

"This is even worse than a fake terrorist attack."

"No, listen to me: it can work."

"We are in the holiday season, the center of London is full of tourists, and no matter how critical our situation is, the safety of the population must be preserved."

"Look at the map!” Sherlock insists “There’re many escape routes, the theater in in the pedestrian area, no cars around, so the risk that someone will get hurt is minimized. At most, someone will have a fit of hysteria."

"I don’t know, it's risky," Mycroft sighs, still doubtful.

"Do I need to remind you what's at stake? Four hours, Mycroft, four hours: we can’t do it, we’ll die first" insists the younger brother with a mournful voice.

"I know well."

"So?"

"Your plan can work” Mycroft admits “Of course, we will have to count on the collaboration of Anthea and some other persons."

"Well, I'll take care of the anonymous phone call and the fake bomb."

"Perfect."

The Holmes brothers don’t work often as a team, but when the situation is so serious and there’s no way out, they can join forces and work together and serried for the common goal, and this crisis can only be overcome if they remain united.

At this point, however, John lowers his newspaper and looks at both of them in exasperation.

"Oh, the two of you, just stop it! You’re developing strategies worthy of a James Bond movie just to have an excuse not to bring your parents to the theater! I can’t believe it."

"It’s not just theater, John, it’s a musical, a four-hour musical! You have no idea of how many neurons of my brain will die in those four hours!" Sherlock complains.

"It’s a legalized torture” Mycroft says “We must use every means we can to avoid it. Unless you are volunteering to accompany them."

"They are your parents, not mine" John protests, frowning.

"Then leave it to the Holmes brothers to manage the crisis."

"Crisis? What… do you hear yourself when you speak? Bah, you're ridiculous, both of you."

Mycroft ignores him and turns back to his brother: "Who will claim responsability for the  bomb threat? This must be plausible, too, otherwise mom and dad will understand that we have set up everything.”

“I know.”

“But there are delicate international and internal balances to consider; then, once again, no terrorists, anarchists and environmentalists, which leaves us with very few alternatives."

Sherlock bites his lower lip, concentrating, then smiles and explains his idea to his brother: "A vague and non-existent religious cult that believes that the theater is the door that leads to heaven to meet the Messiah."

"Will it not be too much?"

"Over the past forty years, there were at least eight mass suicide on religious grounds in the world. Trust me, it's plausible."

"All right."

"We have to move now, though, we haven’t much time to organize the plan."

"I’ll start immediately" Mycroft says and starts typing on the phone.

"Just a second…” John puts definitively the paper aside and watches them carefully “My god, you're not kidding, you will really do it!"

"Of course we’ll really do, John” Sherlock says “The Holmes Brothers never joke about such important things."

"I’m leaving” John proclaims getting up and shaking his head in disbelief “and I haven’t heard anything of this madness."

The doctor goes in his room and hopes that Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s parents will take soon interest in something different from musical and theater, because the thought of what the two brothers together would be able to come up the next time, just to avoid to take them to the theater, makes him tremble with fear.


	3. Sherlock turns his collar up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John in cosplay during a comic convention.

Sherlock blinked slowly, certain he had misunderstood.

"I'm afraid I didn’t understand."

"You have understood very well, Sherlock" John replied, rolling his eyes: he knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince him.

"Did you drank?"

"No."

"LSD?"

"No!"

"So you're serious."

"Yup."

"You want me to disguise as a character of a movie you've seen."

"I’m not the only one who saw the movie, it’s very famous indeed, and you look very much like the main character. The next week there will be a fundraising for the hospital during a comic convention and if you would dress as Doctor Strange, taking photos with people visiting the convention, they would donate us a lot of money."

Sherlock did a quick search on his cell phone, then raises an indignant and offended look on John.

"I don’t have gray hair!"

"For that we will use the hair spray, and a week gives time for you to grow a goatee."

"But…"

"I know it will be boring, I promise that I will do something to make amends, but basically I already said yes to the fundraising organizers. So?"

Sherlock ignored him, got up and went to the mirror over the mantel, slowly turning his head and peering at it with a worried look on his face, and it took a second to John to realize what he was doing, then he reached out and hugged him, chuckling.

"No, you haven’t gray hair like Strange."

"Are you sure you didn’t think of me for that?"

John got to his feet and kissed him on the point of his nose. "I swear."

 

The costume didn’t cost much, because one of the nurses at the clinic was a seamstress on her free time, and she was happy to help for the initiative (and also to take measure of his boyfriend, John thought with a rush of annoyance).

On the day of the convention Sherlock, as expected, refused to wear the costume at home, so he had to change into one of the dressing rooms of the exhibition.

"I don’t understand why I’m the only one who must participate in this farce," he complained, as he stared at the cloak on his shoulders.

"But I’m disguised too."

"No, you're not."

John had just combed his hair differently from usual, wore a light gray suit and had a fake card of C.I.A. agent attached to the breast pocket of the jacket.

"Yes, I am” he insisted “I’m Everett Ross. You'd know, if you watched some Marvel movies too. "

"Whatever. Let's go: I can’t wait for this torture to be over"

John was right: despite Sherlock’s enthusiasm for the initiative was below zero and he had the face of a man sentenced to death, people were lined up to take a picture with him and left generous donations, so much that a colleague of John congratulated with him for the idea.

Towards the end of the day, a girl came up to John and whispered something in his ear, visibly embarrassed.

"Of course, he’ll do it more than willingly," John replied, then looked back at Sherlock, whose gaze told he wouldn’t do anything willingly, but to run away from there.

"Sherlock, may you turn up your collar?"

"What?"

"The collar of the cloak, may you turn it up?"

"Why?"

"Please” the girl said, raising her camera “There’s a scene in the movie where Strange does it, it would be fantastic."

Sherlock was about to open his mouth and protest: he barely agreed with taking pictures with a bunch of strangers, but demanding him to pose was too much, but John cut in.

"Come on, it's something that you do at least ten times a day."

"It's not true!"

The doctor put his hands on the hips and raised an eyebrow, daring him to contradict again, and Sherlock bit his lip.

"All right."

"Fantastic."

Sherlock lifted the collar of the cloak in a slow movement to allow the girl to take a decent picture, but with a sidelong glance he saw that John picked up the phone as well, so, when the girl was out of earshot, Sherlock leaned on him.

"Doctor Watson, did you see something you like?"

John blushed furiously and stammered something.

"Must I keep the costume on even when we go home?" Sherlock insisted mercilessly, and saw a spark of excitement in John's eyes.

"Christ, Sherlock, we're in public" he pleaded, licking his lips.

"So what?" He asked in a falsely innocent voice, touching John’s ear with his nose.

"Behave! Oh god” the doctor moaned when Sherlock rested his lips on his neck “please, you’ll put us in trouble."

With a wicked chuckle Sherlock turned away from him, while John turned his back to the desk to discretely adjust his trousers: damn the hormones and damn his boyfriend.

"Consider it a little revenge for forcing me to participate in this torture."

"I hate you," muttered John.

"Oh, then shouldn’t I wear the costume anymore?"

"Damn it, I told you to stop!" the poor doctor hissed.

Shortly after, four people, two men and two women, passed near their stand.

"Everett Ross and Doctor Strange: now that is an interesting crossover" a woman exclaimed clapping her hands, and her friend nodded and chuckled.

"Oh, please” a man said “They aren’t even in the same comics series: Ross appears only in Black Panther and in a number of X-men."

"I was referring to the Marvel Cinematic Universe: there they could meet."

"There, Ross appears only in Captain America: Civil War, plus the movies aren’t for true fans, they changed everything."

"Again with this thing?"

"Yes, again!"

"You're ridiculous, you can’t talk about universe limitations when we are talking about the Sorcerer Supreme! What about the multiverse, then?"

"That's another thing."

"Just because it's convenient to you."

"You just want ship two random men."

"That’s not true! And, anyway, in my fanfictions I write what I want, so if I want ship Strange and Ross, I do it!"

Witnessing that lively discussion, Sherlock looked at John with a very troubled face.

"They are speaking in English, but I’m not sure I understand their language: what does it mean “to ship”? And what a fanfiction is?"

"I know as few as you, Sherlock."

"It's a moot point” interjected another woman, just arrived from nowhere, who was wearing a blue hospital scrub “Everybody knows that for Strange there’s only Christine Palmer."

“Oh, please” the other girl said “He has friendzoned her throughout the whole movie! They don’t even kiss on the lips."

"It’s true love!" the girl in cosplay said, testily.

"Based on what? They wanted to add at all costs an improbable and ridiculous romantic side to the movie just because they are a man and a woman: heteronormativity is the bane of movies and TV series."

“How can you not see the romance?” the first girl asked, bypassing the desk and placing herself in front of Sherlock “There's that beautiful scene in the hospital where they’re so close..." and saying that, without asking permission, she put her hands on Sherlock's face, immediately sparking John’s visceral jealousy: he put an arm around Sherlock's waist and dragged him away from the hands of the octopus in cosplay.

"You know what?” the former soldier said in an icy voice, the same voice that made the rookies sweat “I prefer very much the version of the other lady."

That said, he bow Sherlock down for a spectacular kiss, ignoring the frenzied squeals and squeaks that rose up around them, and the flashes of cameras.

Sherlock smiled on his lips.

"I prefer this version of the story, too" he whispered.

Meanwhile, the discussion in front of their stand went on.

"Oh my god! This is the best cosplay ever, hands down!" Said one of the women, with gleaming eyes.

"Now we need a name for the ship."

"Strangoss."

"Please, no! It seems a strange Hungarian dish."

"Rossange? Everstrange?"

"I don’t know, I'm unsure..."

Sherlock and John looked at each other and, taking advantage of the confusion, sneaked  off: the next scene of the cosplay that they had in mind needed a much more private setting.


	4. John waxes lyrical about how amazing Sherlock is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of angst. Trigger warnings for depressione and alchoolism.

**From John Watson’s blog**

 

_ Privacy settings: Private _

 

"At this point in my life I’m closer to fifty than to forty. I’ve traveled, I’ve been at war, I came back to London and I ended up being the assistant of a consulting detective, indeed of the only consulting detective in the world; I saw a lot more than a man of my age usually see during life, so now nothing should surprise me.

Instead there’s one thing that will continue to amaze me until the end of my days, and that is how much amazing Sherlock is.

Amazing is a word that I have associated to him from the first moment we met.  _ "How is it possible”  _ I wondered  _ “that a man knows all these things about me? I didn’t say anything and we've known for just five minutes." _

His intelligence, his attention to details, his mind in perpetual movement that elaborates and discards one hundred hypotheses per minute to get to the truth is a part of what makes Sherlock extraordinary, but it isn’t the only thing, or the most important one.

To the most Sherlock appears only as an extremely arrogant man, cocky, obnoxious and rude, and often he’s like that, so much that I often had to to apologize and make up for some of his pungent observation or unfortunate joke that was likely to cause us to lose clients.

What the most of you don’t know, but which I have been privileged to see, it is that Sherlock has a heart too, a great heart capable of loving enthusiastically and without reservation, as I've never seen in my life.

I know that my statement seems strange, even surreal, and many of you by now will be shaking their head, thinking that I'm wrong, I can’t be talking about Sherlock Holmes, I didn’t understand anything about him, or I got duped (yes, Sergeant Donovan, I refer precisely to you), but you are to ones to be wrong.

If you have never seen Sherlock’s heart or humanity is because he doesn’t show his true self to anyone, but only to the few that fall within the narrow circle of people dear to him, and of which I’m privileged to be part of. Sherlock has a very complicated relationship with sentiments: if you ask him he will tell you that they are a hindrance to his work, a pointless and dangerous distraction, something to be avoided at all costs, but the truth is that Sherlock has feelings like everyone else. However his heart lies beyond an almost insurmountable barrier that he has built up over the years to protect himself. The fact that he allowed me to go beyond hts defenses, that he has decided to show me his heart, his feelings, to let me know the real Sherlock Holmes, the man hidden behind the detective with the funny hat, it’s a constant wonder to me: why me, a man like many others? This is something that I will never be able to understand (if you ask Sherlock, he will tell you that there are 427 reasons that make me special in his eyes, so far: he says the list is still open and sometimes he finds some new reason).

Many of you have noticed that many months have passed since I last wrote something on this blog: it's not that I had nothing to tell, it’s that I had lost the desire to write. I had lost the will to do anything, actually.

Depression.

A severe one, and if now I can say that I’ve left it behind, it’s only thanks to Sherlock, who stood by me all time, even in the darkest moments.

You would think that, as a doctor, I should immediately recognize the symptoms and do something, but depression is a sneaky and treacherous illness, the ones of you who has experienced it on their skin knows it well, and when finally I realized I was depressed, it was too late.

It all started a year ago with the death of my sister for liver cirrhosis: Harriet has struggled all her life to escape the demon of alcoholism, but she eventually lost her battle, as our father before her.

I often drank more than I should have, too, I was getting drunk while knowing that I should have stayed away from the bottle, and so, little by little, I became convinced that I would end up in the same spiral in which my family fell over, and that I wouldn’t came out ever again, so it was useless to struggle and fight, in the end I would lost, just like them. Slowly, morning after morning, I was wondering what was the meaning to get up, leave the house and go to work, if I would soon die like all the other Watsons.

My mood became gloomy, grumpy, irritable (even if I can hear some of you thinking: "More irritable than usual?"), my friends and my colleagues have turned away from me, I managed even to argue with Mike, who has the patience of a saint, so I left my job and spent my days doing nothing, motionless, waiting for the inevitable.

During this terrible period, the only one who stayed beside me was Sherlock, even when I didn’t want him to.

Especially when I didn’t want him to: the more I walked away, the more he followed me, stubborn and determined. I insulted him, I hurt him, I offended him, expecting him to do as all the other ones and go away, but he proved me once again what an amazing person he is; he took care of me in every way, taking care of all those tasks that he usually hates, never complaining: he cooked for me, he washed and cleaned the house, he showered me and washed and ironed my clothes, he accompanied me to the psychologist sessions, remaining outside the door, waiting for me, and took me back home, putting aside what has always been so important to him, his work, just for me. In those long, dark months, I became his only priority, he made me feel that I counted, that I was important during a time when I thought I was worth nothing, and that was key for my recovery.

Sherlock did everything he could to drag me out of the depression, and if today I can say that I feel better, if I’m the old John Watson again, it’s only thanks to him. Sure, the medications have been fundamental, they have lifted the black veil that I had before my eyes, and helped to put things in the right perspective, but if Sherlock hadn’t been on my side, if he hadn’t encouraged me to resist and fight depression, I don’t think I would make it.

I don’t think this post will see the light and become public, not because I'm ashamed of having fallen prey to depression and alcohol, but because, as I said, Sherlock doesn’t want to show his heart to anyone, and he would be terribly embarrassed by my words.

This post is for him, because I know that he never learned the concept of ‘privacy’ and ‘private’ and he uses my laptop even if I change the password every day.

This post is to say ‘thank you’ to him.

Thank you for everything you have done for me and for what you continue to do every day, thank you because you show me your heart every day, thank you for being you, Sherlock."

 

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"I managed to make Sherlock Holmes speechless? I have to mark the date on the calendar.

PS: I love you too."

  
  


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	5. Someone says Sherlock's full name

Standing in front of the mirror of the bathroom, John was almost desperate: he had squeezed his brain cells for days, but no idea had satisfied him: how asking Sherlock to marry him?

Just buying the rings had proved to be a daunting task: Sherlock didn’t wear jewels, would have he worn the wedding ring? Then, in the jewelry, he had a dizzy listening the insistent questions of the shop assistant: flat ring? Round? Silver? Platinum? White, yellow or red gold? What she had to write on the inside? The same phrase for both of them? A different phrase for each of them? Just the date of the wedding?

He had looked at her blankly for a long time, certainly looking like a poor retarded, and eventually he bought two thin platinum wedding rings, very discreet and elegant, but it had taken him a whole afternoon to choose them, and that was likely to be the easiest part of the task.

Some would say that, having John already made a marriage proposal in the past, he was an expert now, and knew how to move.

Well, wrong, very wrong: the former proposal he made to Mary was just a hurdle for him, because John didn’t want to do anything that might remember, even remotely, his first, disastrous marriage. So, a proposal during a dinner at the restaurant was out of question.

Unfortunately, all the other alternatives that popped in his head didn’t convince him: he had thought to ask the question during a holiday, maybe in Paris, but Sherlock traveled only for an investigation, never for pleasure, and if John had forced him to leave London without reason, Sherlock would sulk all the time: not the ideal atmosphere for something so important.

He had also thought to organize something in the mortuary room at Barts with the complicity of Molly; Sherlock, with his caustic humor, might even appreciate that, but after a brief meditation, John had discarded this idea: asking Sherlock to pass the rest of their life together in a place of death was wrong, even disturbing. Good God, what the hell was he thinking?

In full crisis, he had sought ideas on the Internet, but most of the proposals were made for young and hetero couples: romantic, borderline to schmaltzy, with blazes of rose petals, heart shaped balloons and teddy bears (or serenades and fireworks under the window, in the case the couple was Italian).

No, definitely that wasn’t for them: Sherlock could be defined in many ways, but romantic was not among them, nor he was, to tell the truth. He wasn’t a creative, either, given his lack of ideas.

John bowed his head and cursed himself.

Maybe, he thought, there was no need to organize at any cost something particular or bizarre for his proposal: Baker Street, their home, their shelter, was the best place in the end.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene of the proposal, as a mental exercise: he had previously hidden the little box with the ring behind the cushion of his chair, and they had just finished to eat dinner... or, more realistically, he had dined, while Sherlock had moved his food around the plate, as the tosser barely ate.

_ "Don’t lose yourself in details, Watson! Concentrate!" _

So: after dinner, Sherlock was going to sit in an armchair. On his, he hoped. Sherlock always sat in armchair on the right of the mantel, why would he choose to sit on the left that night? Well, with the luck he had, everything could be. 

But he had no time to think also about that now, so, hoping that Sherlock would sit on the right chair, John would have asked him if he wanted a cup of tea and... dear god, had they some tea left? Better to stock up. Who knows, maybe at Tesco there was tea on sale?

He shook his head, cursing silently. Damn, he had to concentrate!

So, he made tea, poured it into the mugs, went into the living room, stumbled on the carpet, fell to the ground and spilled hot tea on Sherlock, while he cut his hand with a broken mugs and ended the evening at the hospital.

That was the catastrophic scenario that his mind painted for him.

John let out a high and hysterical chuckle: if he couldn’t even imagine the scene in his mind, how he was suppose to put it in place?

He sighed, clinging to the cold ceramic: why it was so hard?

_ "Because this time is much more important, this is the most important thing I will do in my life and I want it to be perfect." _

He looked up at the mirror: better to put away the scenario for the moment and focus on the words to ask Sherlock to marry him.

He rubbed his hands, scratched an eyebrow and tried to put together a decent sentence.

"So, we are together for several years by now, and things are fine between us, so I thought... no, it's horrible!” He frowned in disgust “It's like the beginning of a song from X Factor."

He rubbed his face, squared his shoulders and tried again: "First of all you have to know that if you don’t like the idea, it doesn’t matter, things can remain as they are, there’s no problem  for me... God, no! Like that it seems that I don’t give a damn."

He stared at his reflection in the mirror for help, but the glass only showed back his desperate face; he opened his mouth a few times, but his brain seemed to be completely empty. He threw his arms in the air and growled in frustration: "I can’t think of anything at all! Why can’t I just tell him:  _ ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes, want you to become William Sherlock Scott Holmes-Watson and spend the rest of your life with me’ _ ?"

His frustrated voice echoed a few seconds against the walls, and then, out of the corner of his eyes, John saw a movement beyond the door and turned abruptly: Sherlock had returned home and was about to knock on the door jamb of the bathroom, before his delicate outburst, and now he seemed to have turned into a pillar of salt, his eyes wide, his mouth open in an 'o' of surprise and one arm comically raised in the air.

"Oh, great” John sighed in defeated voice, while his shoulders lowered and his heart sank “I succeeded in messing it up in the worst possible way! I made a royally fucking mess of the most important thing... oof!"

His disheartened monologue was interrupted by Sherlock’s embrace. The sleuth, recovered from the shock, threw himself headlong in his arms and began to cover his face with kisses and 'yes': each tender little kiss was followed by a 'yes', whispered but sure, on his forehead, on the bridge of his nose, on each of the eyelids, on cheeks and chin.

Well, at least this answered his doubt if Sherlock would agree to marry him.

"Forgive me” John said, burying his face against his shoulder “I wanted for it to be perfect and all, instead look at that mess I made."

"You’re wrong," Sherlock said, continuing to kiss him gently down from the jaw to the neck.

"But it had to be at least a surprise and mph..."

Sherlock's lips were on his for a long, sweet moments, then the consulting detective smiled.

"Ask me again."

"Here?" John asked hesitantly, looking around: he hadn’t washed the bathroom in days, the sink faucet was leaking and Sherlock’s dirty towels were piled on the floor.

"Here, now," Sherlock insisted.

John shook his head, slightly amused, then knelt before the love of his life.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, would you do me the honor of becoming William Sherlock Scott Holmes-Watson?"

"I do."

John only got up only to find himself in Sherlock’s arms again.

"God, forgive me."

"Stop apologizing” Sherlock murmured in his ear “The only thing that is your question and my answer."

"All right."

"But, John?"

"Hm?"

"Can you sign grants and contracts from now on? Your name is shorter."

A hearty laugh was John's answer.


	6. Moustache alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Potterlock. Sherlock, Potionis, and John, Auror, share a small flat in Diagon Alley. At one point, John decides to find another place to live to have more privacy and take home some girl.

The first time John hinted he wanted to leave was on November 2nd. Sherlock remembered it well because that day he would have to add three ingredients in a potion that was brewing.

He was chopping some red coral in the mortar, when John, sitting in a armchair, turned his head towards him.

"I’m thinking about it and now that I made a decision: I will go."

"A mission of the Aurors?" Sherlock asked casually, without giving too much weight to his words.

"No, I'm talking about leaving this flat and going to live on my own."

It took a moment to Sherlock, pledged to weigh the right amount of bay leaves on a scale, to register the meaning of John’s words, then he stopped.

"Why? Am I such an unpleasant flatmate?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"No, no, it's not that” John assured “Although I can’t say that you are an easy person to live with, it’s this flat."

"What's wrong with it?"

London’s magical district suffered for a chronic lack of space: the wizards were numerous and the homes available few and small, like their bizarre apartment; a living room with kitchenette, perpetually disheveled, with ancient books, scrolls and magic ingredients that occupied every available surface, a bathroom and two small bedrooms obtained from a larger room that was divided in two with a wooden partition. For this reason the farest room,  John’s one, was blind, and could be reached only passing through Sherlock’s one.

"You see, I'm sorry to bother you by constantly passing through your room" John explained.

"I told you more than once that I don’t care and it doesn’t bother me."

"Yes, but there is also the issue of privacy: in these conditions none of us can bring a woman home, it would be embarrassing, don’t you think?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to concentrate again on his potion.

"It’s not a problem, I never invite any woman."

John sighed: he knew very well Sherlock’s celibacy habits, as since he had become his flatmate, he had never seen a woman around his friend, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do the same.

"For me it is."

"Can’t you go to their house? If you must," he added grumbling, as he turned to take an empty vial from the kitchen counter.

"It’s a matter of male pride, if you want. However it will not be an immediate thing: I still have to start looking for a suitable accommodation, but I wanted to warn you in advance, so you'll find a new flatmate with whom to share the rent."

Then he stood up, said goodbye and went to work.

Sherlock wanted to tell him he would not seek any other flatmate, because no one was like John, but he just sat at the table, transfixed by the news, so long that the right time to add the ingredients to his potion passed, and he had to throw away the work of three months. But at that moment he didn’t care, he thought only of John, who wanted to leave to run after some stupid woman.

  
  


John asked for help to find a new place to Mike Stamford: Mike worked at the Ministry of Magic for many years and knew a lot of wizards who sold or rented apartments, but so far the flat he had visited had all been disappointing; many were in Muggle zone of London, and this in itself wasn’t a problem, because John was cautious and knew well how to hide his magic self, but they were all very far from the Ministry, too small or too expensive.

"You know, Mike” the Auror once said “If I didn’t know you so well, I would think that you don’t want me to find a new flat."

"Why would I do such a thing?" his friend replied, while he was signing some parchments, and didn’t even raise his head to look at him.

"In fact I was just kidding."

Meanwhile, however, almost a month has passed, John had found nothing that satisfied him and began to get irritated. Sherlock was extremely uncooperative; he didn’t help him in any way, neither was interested and asked him how the house browsing was going.

One afternoon John looked around and saw that the chaos was, if possible, worse than usual: not even a reorganization spell could have done something for it.

"Don’t you think you should tidy up, at least a little? Otherwise potential flatmates will flee away in a flash."

Sherlock shrugged, a sign that the thing didn’t interest him at all.

"As you wish," John said, but realized almost immediately that he has been very rude: to tell the truth, recently Sherlock seemed grim and tense, as if something serious was worrying him and John, so busy searching for a new home, had neglected him.

He was about to ask him if there was any problem, when the Patronus of his colleague Bill Murray, a swallow, came through the window: a wizard, disappeared from home two days before, has been found dead in the Muggle zone London, not too far from Knockturn Alley.

"This doesn’t sound good” John sighed, then looked toward Sherlock “Do you want to come? Maybe he was poisoned by some strange potion, and you can help us."

After all such crimes had already occurred in the past and Sherlock’s help had been useful. The most famous Potionist of London refused to work directly for the Ministry, the reign of his brother Mycroft, but he never refuses to help, when was John the one to ask him, and in fact once again he got up from his desk, giving him a smile for the first time in weeks, and took his coat from the hanger with the wand.

 

Bill, John's colleague, had cast a spell around the place where the body has been found to keep away curious Muggles, but it wasn’t very powerful, as a Scotland Yard policeman approached them, finding suspect that knot of people with bizarre clothes.

"What are you doing... in the name of heaven, this man is dead!"

John and Bill looked at each other, thinking of what to do, but Sherlock anticipated them and casted a on nonverbal Oblivion on the policeman.

"There's been a theft of pigeons seven blocks from here, you must go to investigate" the potionist ordered in a bored voice, and the other man moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, walking away.

"You shouldn’t obliviate muggles so lightly," Bill said.

"And you could use more effective spells" Sherlock retorted.

"Stop, both of you” John intervened “And hurry."

The Auror used a Prior Incantatio on the wand of dead wizard, and discovered he used a Stunning charm, a clear sign that he had tried to defend himself from somebody.

"Look, he was clutching something in his left hand that has been ripped off," Sherlock said, kneeling beside him.

"It would be useful to know what it was."

Sherlock muttered a spell that John didn’t understand and, a moment later, a blurred image like fog appeared in the hand of the dead man; it lasted a few seconds and then disappeared, but John had time to recognize the silhouette of a forbidden amulet: four months before, during a raid, the Aurors had arrested a gang of three wizard who traded forbidden amulets, but it seemed there was still someone out there.

"What do we do?" Bill asked.

John saw that some other Muggles looked at them, intrigued: they had to move from there.

"You bring the corpse to St. Mungo's, me and Sherlock go to Knockturn Alley: I think I know who killed this man and where they’re hiding."

 

When night fell, Knockturn Alley oppressive and sinister atmosphere was if possible even more amplified: the shadows, dense and dark, climbed on the cobbles of the street and on the walls of palaces despite street lamps, whose light didn’t seem enough to beat the darkness. The two wizards walked fast in the narrow alleys, earning side glances from rare passers-by, until they got in front of a two-storey building that seemed abandoned.

"The amulets were being sold in the street, but it was here that they created them” John said “Come on, we enter from the back."

But the back door was locked by an ancient and complicated lock.

"I fear that a simple Alohomora is not sufficient in this case” Sherlock muttered Sherlock “It requires a password to open it. If you could tell me more about these criminals I can try to deduce what it is."

John in the meantime had sent his Patronus in the building and it came back informing him that there were three wizards and they had already discovered them.

"No time, they’re running away. Bombarda maxima!" He pointed his wand at the door, that exploded into a thousand pieces.

"There are three of them” he said to Sherlock “and they’re on the second floor."

A brief look of understanding passed through them, followed by a smile full of adrenalin, then they dived headlong into battle. A few minutes later the old building lit with lightning and sparks of spells that the two sides threw in the air. John and Sherlock were much superior, and soon they got the upper hand, but towards the end of the fight, John believed to have been brushed by a spell, but as he didn’t feel any pain, he immediately forgot the episode.

The day after the arrest of the wizards, John was enjoying a moment of notoriety (though he kept telling everyone that also Sherlock must be credited for the arrest) and a young colleague named Jeanette came to congratulate him, so John took the opportunity to invite her out to dinner. The evening went very well and, when John took her back home and kissed her, Jeanette smiled and kissed him back. However, just as the kiss was going to be more interesting, the woman pulled back annoyed, stared at him and let out a little scared scream.

"What's up?"

"Your face... Dear Merlin, it's horrible!"

"What are you talking about?" John summoned a mirror, looked at it, and screamed as well: a thick and downright ugly mustache had appeared under his nose, it was like if someone had stuck the tail of a squirrel on his face.

"Are you sick? Why didn’t you tell me?” Jeanette cried, angry “Is it contagious?"

"I don’t know! I've never experienced anything like that! Maybe it's something I ate tonight."

The two ended the evening at St. Mungo's, but Sarah, the doctor who visited both of them, found no traces of poison or magical diseases.

"Recently I was involved in a battle between wizards: have I been cursed?"

"It’s possible, though it seems a very strange curse to me. I mean, if they wanted to harm you, they would choose something more effective, right? That mustache are simply ugly and can be cut with a common razor. However, to rule out the hypothesis, we will make more thorough checks."

Jeanette didn’t want to see him again and returned home alone, and John did the same.

He told Sherlock what had happened to him, and then looked at him expectantly.

"So?"

"So what?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"So what had happened to me, in your opinion?"

"How should I know, John? I'm not a mediwizard, nor an expert of spells, I deal with potions."

"But the oddities interests you: have you never heard of anything like that?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"That's all right” John sighed “And, in any case, there is a positive fact: I will continue to see that beautiful doctor at the hospital. Hey, where are you going?" He asked, seeing that Sherlock got up suddenly.

"To sleep."

"But it's still early. Did you eat tonight?"

Sherlock shook his head and John sighed again, worried: when he would move out, who would take care of Sherlock?

The days passed, and no other oddity happened to John: no mustache, no purple hair or hands with six fingers, so the Auror relaxed, also thanks to the Christmas spirit that had invaded the streets of the capital, with decorations and decorations: he had to admit that, at that time of the year, Diagon Alley had a very special charm, with the magical snow falling from the sky, even though in the rest of London the sun was shining. He would miss looking out of the window of the living room, drinking a hot and spiced chocolate, and for the first time he wondered if it was really necessary to move out. Well, yes, it was, after all a man needed his privacy, right?

A few days later he got a date with Sarah: he waited for her shift to end, bringing flowers, they went to dinner (at a different restaurant from the one where he had brought Jeanette) and she invited him to go up to her flat for a coffee, but when he kissed her, Sarah had the same horrified reaction of Jeanette.

"What? Again? What the...? "

John looked in the mirror: yes, he had a ugly mustache, even uglier than the last one, so long and thick that it hid his lips. So the curse was like that: every time she kissed a woman, he grew a mustache. A horribile moustache.

"It can’t be” he said “What kind of curse is this?"

Obviously the date with Sarah ended there and John was back again at in St. Mungo's for a check; this time he was examined by three different mediwizards, but no one could understand the origin of the curse. Then John went to Azkaban to question the wizards he had arrested, using the Veritaserum, but it turned out that they didn’t do anything, and at that point the Auror didn’t know what to do anymore.

Back at the office, he sat down at his desk, so disheartened that a colleague stood up and kissed him on the forehead to cheer him up, and this was enough to grow a ridiculous little mustache under his nose.

"Cheer up” Bill said “I solved one of your problems."

"Did you find out how to remove the curse?"

"I told you that I solved a problem, not that I did a miracle. I've found you a home."

With all that had happened to him, he had almost forgotten, and by now he didn’t really want to look for flats, but he didn’t want to be rude to Bill, so he followed him.

The flat was in Muggle zone of London, but not too far from the Ministry, it was small but appropriate for his needs, and incredibly clean and simple, with its white, squared, modern furnitures, and the rent was reasonable.

"It’s already furnished, so you don’t have to bring along any junk from where you live now," Bill said.

It was perfect, he would no longer have an opportunity like that, but John hesitated, as he couldn’t imagine himself living there: he felt that something was missing, in that tidy and aseptic space, and suddenly realized what it was.

It was Sherlock-less.

"Look, Bill, I have to think about it."

"If the landlord will not have an answer by tonight, he will rent it to someone else, he has a lot of requests."

"Yes, yes, I will let you know."

But in his heart he already knew he wouldn’t.

When he returned home that evening, he found Sherlock asleep on the couch, curled up like a cat. 

He found a surprise, too: Sherlock had managed, with a spell, to get a bit of space between the library and the window of the living room, and had put a little Christmas tree. Since when they lived together, they never had a Christmas tree, because Sherlock insisted that there was no place for it and it was useless to waste magic to such a thing, yet now the tree was there, along with small magical lights, similar to fireflies, floating close to furnitures and window frames.

It was very nice and it felt like home, unlike the white and tidy flat he visited that afternoon, and made him feel a warmth in the heart.

He walked over to the couch, leaned over Sherlock and kissed his cheek.

And when he straightened up, everything was clear to him.

He looked indulgently at the asleep wizard and shook his head.

'Idiot. What should I do with you?" He murmured.

Sherlock woke up a few hours later and saw John sitting in his armchair, looking at him with a smile.

"It's very beautiful," John began, pointing to the tree.

Sherlock shrugged, fiddling a loose ripped thread of his shirt with his fingers.

"I didn’t want to hear your complains about the lack of decorations, this year."

"But now that we have a tree, we must place gifts under it."

"Is there anything in particular you want?"

"Yes, you could get rid of this ridiculous curse for me" John said, tapping a finger under his nose.

"I don’t know what you're talking about" Sherlock muttered, staring at the floor.

"Sherlock... I understood it was you. You did it during the battle with that three wizards, right?"

"How did you find out?"

"Maybe because the curse has boycotted my approaches with women, the reason why I wanted to leave? And then” he added with a sly smile “before, when I kissed you, nothing happened."

Sherlock sat up and his cheeks took a lovely blush.

"You... did you...?" he gasped, unable to form a coherent sentence, while John got up, walking toward him.

"Don’t go" Sherlock whispered, clinging to his arms.

"Hush, I changed my mind” John assured him “Well, I realized that leaving is not what I really wanted."

"John..."

The Auror bent over to kiss him again, but first he asked: "But, seriously, lift this curse, I don’t want to see those horrible mustache anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Mike is boycotting John: he doesn't want for John to leave Sherlock, because he knows better.


	7. Someone swings an umbrella around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft directs a babysitter agency, Mary Poppins style.  
> Yes, it is stupid as it sounds. The prompt doesn't tell me anything and then it came out horrible. Sorry!

"Mycroft, I take a vacation," Mrs. Hudson proclaimed, clutching the headscarf under her chin.

The director of the babysitting agency Diogenes flipped through the pages of his voluminous agenda.

"I can give you four days at the end of the month, okay?"

"No, you didn’t understand: I take a vacation now."

"You can’t: you’re babysitting the two sons of Phillip Anderson right now. Alan, seven, and Ethan, five."

"Well,  not anymore."

"But I don’t even have time to find a replacement" Mycroft protested.

"I don’t care: I need a long vacation and my herbal soothers, not necessarily in that order."

The old woman went out on the balcony, opened her umbrella and let the wind raised and bring her to distant shores.

Mycroft frowned, worried: Mrs. Hudson was the best nanny of his agency and, if she had run away from the children, the situation had to be serious.

He searched again in his agenda, but all the other nannies were already engaged until the following day, only Anthea, his assistant, was free, but once she had lost two adult elephants downtown: too focused on her cellphone, she didn’t realize that the two animals had strayed away.

It wasn’t a good precedent, but Mycroft still sifted the hypothesis: how bad it was to lose two children? After all, they were insured against that kind of accidents, however, it would have been a negative advertising for his agency.

He thought even to his brother Sherlock, who wasn’t even part of the agency, but he would have been worse than Anthea: at the first whim from the children, Sherlock would add in their hot milk the same herbs that he passed to Mrs. Hudson. No, Sherlock wasn’t a solution.

So there was no alternative: he should take care of the little Andersons in person that afternoon.

He approached the umbrella stand and chose his best black traveling umbrella. Actually all Mycroft’s umbrellas were blacks, but he insisted that they had different shades and he could perfectly distinguish them.

As Mrs. Hudson did some moments before, he went on the balcony, opened his umbrella, he concentrated on Anderson’s address and flew away.

On the roof of their house, Admiral Boom and Mr. Binnacle were enjoying the beautiful day, when the weather vane on top of the mast of the ship rotated of 180 degrees.

"The wind has changed, it comes from East” muttered the Admiral “I predict a storm."

Mycroft Holmes landed in front of the Anderson’s house some minutes before 3 p.m., to have time to explain to the children's father why the babysitter has changed, and rang the bell.

A breathless man, with a crooked tie and jacket in hand came to the door, while behind him the ferocious screams of his two children covered any attempt at conversation.

Delicious, Mycroft thought sarcastically.

"Er… yes?"

"Mrs. Hudson will not come today, I'm her replacement."

Mr. Anderson looked at him skeptically, but then the screams increased in volume and he shook his head.

"Okay, okay. I'll be back around seven p.m., more or less."

"More or less?” Mycroft asked coldly, raising an eyebrow “Mr. Anderson, to be on-time is-"

"Yes, yes” he interrupted him, patting him on the shoulder “I have to go. Good luck."

That said, he left the house, leaving at the door an extremely annoyed director of babysitting agency: sloppiness, approximation, rudeness, it was no wonder that even Martha had thrown in the towel.

He had only set foot in the corridor and his suspicions were confirmed: two little savages were running wildly in the living room, jumping on the couch and throwing pillows, and they noticed him only when a pillow launched by the older one missed the target and flew to Mycroft, who ducked his head in a gesture full of discomfort.

"Who are you?" Ethan asked.

"The replacement of Mrs. Hudson."

"And why you’re here?"

"Because you have caused her a nervous breakdown."

"What’s a nervous breakdown?"

The youngest child was in the phase of endless questions. More and more delicious.

Mycroft ignored him and went to the kitchen to start preparing snacks for children.

"Wait” Ethan protested “You haven’t told me what a nervous breakdown is."

"A set of psychological and neurological diseases generated by a high stress situation."

"And what is stress?"

"What I'm experiencing right now," Mycroft muttered softly, then stopped at the kitchen door, as it appeared to be bombarded: dirty dishes and open boxes were scattered everywhere.

"For god's sake, what happened here?"

Alan shrugged. "It is always like this."

"But Mrs. Hudson doesn’t tidy up?"

"Oh yes, every day. But when Dad returns from work and cooks, it becomes like that."

"It’s not possible..." Mycroft muttered.

"What is not possible?” Ethan urged “Why you don’t answer my questions?"

Mycroft began to understand why the woman had taken a vacation; he tapped his umbrella on the floor and the chaos began to disappear: the open boxes closed, milk and cheese came back in the refrigerator, dirty dishes rose and fell in line waiting to take place in the dishwasher.

"Mrs. Hudson doesn’t do like that to tidy up, she claps her hands."

"Everyone has his own method."

"Yes, but she doesn’t do like that. Why don’t you clap your hands too?"

"The result is the same, nothing changes."

"I don’t like it, do as she does!" Alan insisted, with the typical illogical logic of children of his age.

Mycroft absolutely didn’t want to satisfy his whim, but Alan exploded in a raucous cry, stamping his feet on the ground, and all the attempts made by Mycroft to show him reason failed.

"If you really want to fix things by clapping, why don’t you do it yourself?"

"We can’t” Ethan said “Mrs. Hudson didn’t give us the permission."

That was strange: the babysitters always gave a touch of magic to the children, so they learned to tidy up their things.

Mycroft tapped again the umbrella on the floor.

"There, now you can."

Alan stopped crying instantly and, with his brother, he ran out of the kitchen.

"You should tidy up here," Mycroft said, but without much conviction: actually without the children around, it was better for him. He was going to prepare a perfect English tea, but after a few minutes he stopped, because a worrying noise came from the upper floor.

"Stairs” he muttered as he climbed upstairs “I hate them."

The two children hadn’t used their powers to tidy up, on the contrary, they created the biggest mess ever seen: every article of clothing was out and swirled around the room, with the toys and the sheets. A F4 tornado would do less damage.

Mycroft overturned his umbrella, holding it as if it were a golf club: the temptation to send both children in the stratosphere with a well-aimed blow was strong, very strong, but the insurance didn’t cover that category of accidents.

Even Sherlock’s herbal soothers didn’t seem an immoral idea anymore.

"You have to put everything in place, now!" He used his most authoritative tone, but the children ignored him and ran out of the room, and he had no intention of wasting energy and run after they, so he walked down the stairs with his indolent steps, in time to witness the destruction of the living room.

"If you don’t stop right now, you'll not have any snack."

"What have you prepared?" Ethan asked.

"Tea."

"And then?"

"Cookies."

"And then?"

"And that's it, it’s a snack, not a meal."

"Then we don’t care” Alan let him know “We don’t like tea, and we don’t eat the cookies form the package we have in the kitchen, they’re all broken."

"So what?"

"I eat only whole cookies, if they’re broken I don’t want them."

"But... but they are the same thing!” Mycroft cried, appalled “And when you put them in your mouth they break anyway."

The boy shrugged his shoulders, like to say it wasn’t his problem, then he came back to create havoc in the living room with his brother.

Mycroft had no means to blackmail them, he didn’t know any game that would keep them quiet, and all the solutions that came to his mind were deeply illegal. Yet there had to be a way to beat them: they were just two little savages and he was one of the smartest men on the planet, he couldn’t be defeated.

Suddenly he had an idea: he swinged his umbrella with a lazy gesture, then he leaned on it, ready to enjoy the show. 

The two Andersons still ran up and down from chairs and sofas screaming like madmen, but the things they had thrown around, instead of keeping swirl in the air, came back neatly in their place, and suddenly that living room was so tidied up that you could say it belonged to a person with an obsessive compulsive disorder.

"What have you done?"

"I have modified slightly your magical powers: the further you unleash and howl, the further the house would tidy up."

"It's not fair!" Alan shouted, banging his feet on the floor, but it had the only effect of making the house more clean and tidied up.

"I don’t like it” Ethan said “Tell us what we must do to stop it."

"You have to be good."

"But to be good means to not create disorder."

"Exactly."

"And if we don’t behave, the house would be clean anyway."

“Very smart, Ethan.”

"But... but... it means that we are forced to behave in any case."

"Excellent: I see that you’re giving yourself the answers to your questions. Do you want to vent your destructiveness? Go ahead, but now it will not bring any more destruction."

When Anderson returned home, he found that all was in perfect order and his children had also done their homework.

"When I saw you, I was uncertain, you didn’t seem to be cut for the job, but you was great. How did you do?"

Mycroft swinged his precious umbrella: "Professional secret."


	8. Sherlock apologizes

"Sherlock never apologizes" the father of the consulting detective once said to John, in a calm voice that subdued the hint of an apology itself, as if to say ' _ forgive him, it has nothing to do with you, he’s just like that' _ .

And, for a certain period, John thought that Sherlock’s father was right: he had never heard a  _ 'I'm sorry',  _ or  _ 'forgive me, I didn’t mean it' _ falling from that mouth, as if Sherlock really didn’t care to hurt other people, and he was indifferent to everything and everyone.

It didn’t matter that Sherlock  _ 'was just like that' _ , as claimed by his father, it hurt anyway.

But, living with a man who was one of the most acute and careful observers of the planet, a bit of that spirit of observation had also permeated John’s mind, so the doctor started to notice many little things, seemingly trivial and unimportant gestures that Sherlock made after he had angered John.

Sherlock abandoned him at a crime scene, forgetting that they had come together?

When John came home, he found a cup of hot tea waiting for him.

He and Sherlock were up all night long to solve a case, and the day after John couldn’t stand up?

Sherlock made lunch and dinner, always including his favorite dishes.

Sherlock left the residue of a disgusting experiment on the kitchen table which then John had to clean?

That evening he played the songs that John loved the most with is violin.

And the list could go on forever.

So finally John understood that Mr. Holmes was wrong: Sherlock continually apologized to him, only he didn’t use the words to do that.

But he had understood, and that was all that mattered.


	9. John Watson rage sniff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock established relationship

One evening in mid-December, John and Sherlock were quietly sitting in the living room of Baker Street: Sherlock was tuning his violin to start playing and John was looking at accounts and bills; the bell rang and the two looked at each other.

"A client at this hour? Must be desperate," Sherlock said.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a male voice, well known to both said: "I know the way” and went up.

It was Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock’s former university mate. The detective sat in an armchair, giving him just a nod, while John stood up and shook his hand.

"I hope you're not too busy at the time, Sherlock, because I have a case for you."

"I have to see if I want to accept."

"Of course he has time” John interjected “Tell us everything."

Sherlock sent him an annoyed look, but John wasn’t impressed: he had just done the math of the bills, and a paying client would have been wonderful.

"It's a pretty tricky situation: I recently discovered that some of my colleagues are diverting money from the accounts of all our clients. Paltry sums individually taken, but huge in the end, and if someone did a thorough check and rumours spread, it would be a disaster for us. Therefore we don’t want to involve the police: we prefer to resolve the matter quietly and discreetly, asking the culprit to return the money and resign, without fanfare."

Sherlock snorted: "Boring! Did you take me for an accountant? I do not-"

"We accept" John said.

"But John..." Sherlock protested.

"We accept," the doctor repeated.

"If we must” Sherlock sighed “Sebastian, I need the files of all your employees and I will have to spend a day in your office to see if someone has changed habits of life lately."

"It will not be necessary: I will have a Christmas party on December 23rd, where there’ll be all colleagues from the headquarters, you can do all your deductions there."

"Better and better" Sherlock murmured, his voice barely audible: he wasn’t happy at the idea of not having to take the case, but tedious party at Sebastian's home was even worse.

The man in the meantime had already pulled out a check and handed it to John.

"Of course you are also invited, John."

"Great."

"You'll see Sherlock, we will have fun: in addition to the bank's employees, there will be several of our university mates."

"I see," said Sherlock, suddenly tense.

"I'll see you on 23rd. In the meantime I'll deliver the files you asked for."

"Explain to me why I had to accept" Sherlock asked, once Sebastian had left.

"Because at the end of the month there are water and gas to be paid and we can’t afford to be squeamish about clients."

Sherlock merely snorted in response, but John insisted: "I don’t understand why you’re been so difficult: Sebastian pays well and his cases are easy for you, it’s a maximum gain with minimum effort."

"I have my reasons."

'Well, me too," he replied, waving the bills.

"As you want."

Sherlock stood up and went to lie down on the bed. Sebastian was a fool, but basically he was harmless, but the same couldn’t be said of the other former mates: they had many stories to tell, stories that belonged to a chapter of his life that he didn’t want to revive and that he didn’t want for John to know. But now he couldn’t do anything about it, as asking John to not go with him to the party would only make the doctor suspicious: he wouldn’t find peace until he did know why. Sherlock could only hope that the others weren’t in the mood to tell certain episodes of their shared past, for the sake of decency, or because they had forgotten about it.

Sherlock had gone to sleep and no longer played the violin, a sign that Sebastian’s visit had really annoyed him, though John couldn’t understand the reason: the two of them couldn’t be called friends, but they had a more than cordial relationship. Perhaps Sherlock was bothered by the idea to join the Christmas party? Sure, it would be boring, but Sherlock had endured worse, and then he would have been engaged in finding the culprit, he hadn’t to socialize and pretend to have fun.

He shook his head: he really didn’t understand.

He went into the bedroom and lay down behind Sherlock, who had turned on his side, and stroked his right arm.

"Hey, are you all right?" He asked, kissing his neck.

"Naturally."

So it wasn’t all right at all.

"Look, if it’s such a weight for you, tomorrow morning I go to Sebastian’s, give him back the check and tell him that we don’t take the case. I will invent an excuse."

"No, it's not necessary."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

 

Sherlock tried to solve the case before the 23rd, but the documents that Sebastian had provided were incomplete; he also went to his office a few times, but the employees were often out of the office to visit their clients and, not being able to meet them, he couldn’t figure out who the culprit was, so he resigned to attend the Christmas party.

 

"Sherlock, do you think this will be okay?" John had put aside his beloved Christmas sweaters in favor of a complete with a tie, knowing that the party would be classy; Sherlock instead was dressed as usual, but he would have looked gorgeous with anything on him.

Or with nothing.

Sherlock caught John looking at him and smiled.

"Have you changed your mind? Do you prefer to stay at home and do something else?"

"Good try, but it doesn’t work."

"Just good?"

It was a great try to distract him, but the work was awaiting for them.

"Come on, the taxi is waiting for us."

 

"We do as usual? We split up and talk with the guests?"

"No, stay with me."

"Why?"

"I don’t think it will take me long to discover the culprit, it will not be long, so don’t wander around."

"I'm not a dog," John protested.

Sherlock nodded a greeting to Sebastian, who was with his wife, then began to walk through the room. His former classmates were grouped together in a corner and they hadn’t seen him, so Sherlock turned in the opposite direction. They were not of use to the case, anyway.

The bank employees were also gathered in groups, and this gave him the opportunity to do his work more quickly: he deduced them one by one, from head to toe, extrapolating as much information as possible from their clothing, posture and speeches, looking for those who feel uncomfortable with a dress or a new or expensive accessory, which they weren’t accustomed to have, who were unconsciously on the defensive, as a person with a bad conscience would be, or who tried to avoid conversations about work. So absorbed in his deductions, he doesn’t notice the time that passed, nor the fact that John began to show signs of impatience.

The doctor knew that Sherlock could remain still like that for half an hour, but he needed a distraction: he took a glass of champagne from a tray and walked away, exchanging Christmas greetings with the other guests, up to approach a group of people of more or less the same age as Sherlock, probably his former classmates?

Suddenly he had an idea: maybe they were the reason why Sherlock was so reluctant to join the party. By Sebastian’s anecdotes he could tell that Sherlock wasn’t much loved at the time, and it was likely that these men had some embarrassing stories about the past of his companion, like that he got drunk and was found riding a statue, or that he was locked out of his room naked, or he had stumbled in the cafeteria spilling the tray in front of everyone. Sherlock hardly spoke about that time, but John would have liked to know an embarrassing story, to tease him sometimes.

"Excuse me” he began with a polite smile “Are you Sebastian and Sherlock former university mates?"

"Sherlock? You mean Holmes, the weirdo? Yes!" Said a man who obviously had drunk too much.

"Is Holmes here? Where? Sebastian didn’t tell us anything," said a second man with blond hair, who was also not too sober.

John's smile faded immediately, he was sorry that he had spoken to them.

"Nowadays Sherlock is a consulting detective, and yes, he's here."

"Hey, look at him” said a third man “He hasn’t changed at all, always a lunatic: why the hell he’s dazed in the middle of the room, like a statue? He looks like a jerk."

John clenched his left fist at his side, the first sign that rage was rising inside him, but unfortunately those men didn’t know his body language.

"Sherlock is not dazed, he’s working."

The first man shook his head with a malicious grin. "Oh please, bet he’s stoned as always, the junkie."

At that, John's blood froze in his veins and the knuckles of his left hand turned white. Of course, he knew better than anyone the problems that Sherlock had with drugs, but he didn’t accept for someone to talk about him with such contempt: he didn’t deserve this.

Now he understood why Sherlock didn’t want to attend the party: the things that these men knew about him were not funny or embarrassing, they were painful and humiliating.

"How did you call him?"

"With his name: junkie. Cocaine, heroin, meth, there is nothing that he hadn’t try, I'm surprised he survived. "

"During youth we all did stupid things" John defenses him.

"There’s one thing I've always wondered: Holmes has always been so weird since birth or there were the drugs to fry his brain?"

The other two laughed and the barometer of John's anger went up by several millibars.

"Taking drugs was very stupid of him, but you can’t say that Sherlock isn’t smart."

_ 'More than you primates put together' _ his murderess look said.

The third man intervened, showing his teeth in an allusive grin. "Ah, that's true, I speak from personal experience: when Holmes opened his mouth, he left you breathless, in more ways than one."

"What do you mean?"

"When his brother found that he was a junkie, he cut off his funds, and Holmes would have done anything to raise a bit of money, including great blowjobs to me."

John was swept by a wave of nausea, while the three men continued to laugh and take pleasure in humiliating Sherlock.

"Hey, you never told us that."

"So he was a whore, as well as a weirdo. And how was he?" the blonde asked.

"Guys, I'm not a fag, you know, it was just for fun, but I assure you that Holmes was skilled. Indeed, in my opinion, if I give him a fifty to buy cocaine, he’d do it again."

 

Sherlock had since managed to locate the culprit of the bank theft.

"He is the man with red hair," he said to Sebastian.

"I never suspected him. Thanks, I'll pay you tomorrow morning."

"Well, we're done. Come on, John, let's go."

He turned to look for the doctor and only then realized that John had left, and he was just where he didn’t want him to be, next to his former comrades.

He ran up, but he knew already it was too late: the three men were laughing, but when one of them saw him coming, raised his chin in his direction and the other two turned around, stopping laughing, and confirming his suspicions that they were talking about him.

It didn’t matter to him to be laughed at by those three morons, but John's face was terrible and his whole body was stiff and tense: he was about to explode. Well, it wasn’t a shock that he was so furious after learning some details about his past.

"John, can we talk somewhere else?" Sherlock said when he reached them, without even looking at the other three. John didn’t answer, but sniffed noisily, and his face grew even darker, if possible, like every time he was getting ready to hit someone; Sherlock closed his eyes, preparing for the impact, but John’s punch wasn’t addressed to him, but to the man who had insulted him, who found himself on the floor ground with a broken and bleeding nose.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" the blonde man cried, but John twisted his wrist behind his back with disarming ease and slammed him against the wall.

"No one talks like that about Sherlock in my presence, remember it," he growled, then turned his gaze to the third one of the company, challenging him to open his mouth, but the man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and said nothing.

"Have you done here?" He asked Sherlock, with a calmer, almost sweet voice

Sherlock just nodded, still speechless.

"My genius” John murmured with affection and took his hand “Come on, let's get out of here."

He dragged him out of the room and Sherlock let himself be guided docilely, waiting for John to speak again, but after a while he hadn’t yet said a word.

"John," he tried, in vain.

"John” the detective insisted with a sigh “You can’t ignore it."

"Your former mates are really a bunch of dickheads. Now I understand why you hate them."

Sherlock paused, forcing John to turn.

"But what they’ve told you is true."

John pulled off his glove and touched his cheek. "Forgive me, I shouldn’t have had to insist for you to take this case."

Sherlock looked at him, confused. "You're not angry with me?"

"What? Is it what you think? No, of course not! Why should I be?"

"For what you have discovered, of course."

John slid his hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer. "I already knew that your teenage years had not been easy, with the drug addiction and everything, and I know that you are no longer the man you were once. You’re not the one to have done something wrong tonight, those three assholes did."

"That's all?” Sherlock asked, still skeptical “Do you really not care about how I got the money for the drugs?"

John shrugged. "It would be hypocritical of me: at the university I was a bad person, at one point I dated three different girls at the same time, besides I was a troublemaker who fighted for no reason, but look at me now!" He exclaimed proudly.

"John” Sherlock remarked cautiously “You're saying these things after beating two men."

"Yes, well, now I fight only for important things."

Sherlock smiled and took him by the hand again.

"Then, thank you for defending my honor."

John kissed the back of his hand and the two walked toward home.


	10. Sherlock stands on a roof like Batman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU teenlock

AU Teenlock

 

"Sherlock has something of a superhero," Victor thought out of the blue.

They were on the roof of the school for more than two hours, and while Sherlock was still watchful, looking at what was happening below them, Victor played Snake on his cellphone, until the battery died.

It was almost Christmas and some students were in the mood for jokes, given that someone had tampered the chemistry lab's facilities and clogged the gym showers.

Sherlock was convinced that, for the next joke, they would steal the costumes for the Christmas play; Victor didn’t know how he did it, but Sherlock rarely wrong about these things, so he had followed him on the roof, from where Sherlock wanted to take photos the culprits.

"Still anything?" Victor asked with a yawn.

"No, have patience."

"Patience? You, who get bored after five minutes of any lesson, are asking me to have patience?"

"But this is fun."

"For you, maybe."

“I didn’t force you to follow me."

As he didn’t want to fight, Victor didn’t answer, merely watching Sherlock standing there on the roof, with his hair ruffled by the wind and the school uniform jacket billowing behind him like a cape, and he made him think about superheroes.

_ "Who could he be?" _ he wondered to himself, just to pass the time.

Not Superman. Sherlock was good at martial arts, but he certainly couldn’t be called a muscle guy. Besides, Sherlock would have been horrified to be compared to someone who used the physical strength and not the brain to solve problems.

Absolutely he wasn’t Spiderman. Yes, Sherlock was very agile, but decidedly lacked in the  sense of humor department.

Doctor Strange? Perhaps in a parallel universe, but certainly not in their: Sherlock didn’t believe in any way to the magic.

Batman? Well, yes, right now Sherlock had something of the Dark Knight, with his serious and thoughtful expression, and then he had a personal sense of justice, even if he said he loved the mysteries because they were the only thing that didn’t bore him.

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing interesting, only Josephine Parker making out with Michael Collins."

"What?"

"From here we can see the female dorm."

"And are you telling me only now?"

Victor ran close to Sherlock and began to giggle.

"Boy, did you see that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's just sex, nothing interesting," he muttered, and went back to look at the school theater.

"One day you'll fall in love, and then you’ll find it very interesting, indeed."

"There will never be such a person to me."

Victor found his statement very sad.

"Something is happening," the curly boy said, pointing the camera at the back door of the theater, photographing two guys running away with big blacks garbage bags, which contained the stolen costumes.

"Lowe and Hartman” Sherlock said, shaking his head “They share a single neuron, I should have known it was them. Come on, we have to warn the acting teacher before the passage of the garbage truck."

But Victor was still thinking about what Sherlock had said shortly before.

"I hope that one day you can find your Robin," he said in a low voice.

"Did you say something, Vic?"

"No, nothing."


	11. Sherlock puts on his scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU teenlock balletlock

That dancer wore a scarf almost all the time, John noticed it immediately: no matter if he was wearing the leotard or regular clothes, there was almost always a blue scarf around his neck, so John had thought it was to conceal a deformity or a scar, but once he saw his neck, and it was perfect.

Maybe it was a kind of lucky charm to keep misfortune away: the sports world was full of superstitious people full of whims, probably it was the same for ballet dancers.

Sometimes he had got the curiosity to ask him, but he and the dancer didn’t know each other, they just went to the same sports complex, because the dance studio of Martha Hudson was close to the rugby stadium. And John thought he would have never spoken to the boy, who was always walking briskly, with his head bowed down, without stopping to talk to anyone.

He was a very gloomy boy.

 

After the training session, the locker room was always a mess of screaming boys, who beat each other with wet towels or joked in the shower.

That day Andy, the captain, pushed one of his mate under a stream of cold water, and the boy screamed and struggled like a cat.

"Fuck you, Andy!"

"Come on, don’t be a poof, Chris. John, tell him too."

John felt a little uneasy: he didn’t like too heavy jokes or the homophobic language that the other guys used, but, on the other side he was new in the team, he was the youngest, wanted to make friends and fit in the group: scolding the captain wouldn’t be a smart move.

"It's not muriatic acid, Chris, just cold water” he said with a forced chuckle.

"Well done, rookie" Andy said, sliding an arm around his neck.

"Next time throw him under the shower, you prick" Chris snorted.

"So, are you done? How long does it take to have a shower?” the coach said the coach, breaking in the locker room “Hurry up!"

The boys stopped joking, dressed in haste and left, but halfway John realized he had forgotten his dirty uniform, so he greeted his friends and came back in a hurry, so much that, turning the corner, he collided against the dancer, knocking him to the ground.

"Sorry, sorry! Did I hurt you?"

He held out his hand, but the dancer tightened his scarf around his neck and stood up alone, without answering.

"What the heck! I apologized, I didn’t it on purpose," John muttered, making sure that the other heard him, indeed the boy stopped and turned to face him, uncertain, then mumbled 'I'm fine' and walked on, but with slower pace.

"Oh man, no, you're not fine! Tell me you haven’t twisted your ankle because of me." The ankles were fundamental for the ballet and John hoped to haven’t hurt him.

"I don’t think so."

"Is there someone who can check on you at the dance studio?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

Without thinking too much, John knelt on the ground, stretching his arms behind him.

"What are you doing?" the perplexed dancer asked, frowning.

"I'll take you to the studio, on my back."

"It’s not necessary the studio is close."

"Exactly, it isn’t a big effort."

"I feel pretty good."

"I don’t want to risk: it was my fault, so I want to be sure you're okay."

"But…"

"Don’t make me beg, or you’ll force me to pick you up bride style."

The boy bowed his head, almost hiding it in the scarf around his neck, then, because the rugby player was adamant, he resigned himself to do as he was asked.

When John got up, he discovered that the dancer was incredibly light.

"Damn, do you ever eat?"

"We have to follow a strict diet."

"Congratulations for the perseverance, I will never be able to."

The dancer murmured something that could sound like a thank you, and John realized that they hadn’t introduced properly.

"I'm John."

"Watson, I know."

"How?" They had never spoken, nor they were in the same circles of friends.

"You have it written on the jacket of the uniform. I'm Sherlock Holmes, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

Without knowing why, John smiled: he wasn’t the only one who noticed the other, and the thing pleased him.

Luckily Sherlock’s ankle had just taken a bad blow, but it wasn’t sprained, so he just needed ice and ointment for a couple of days.

John was relieved, and only then he remembered why he had come back, so he ran towards the locker room of the sports field, finding them closed.

"Shit!" He growled, kicking the door: his mother always recommended him to bring home his dirty uniform to wash, now he should have to put up with her complaints all night.

"Do you want me to open it?" Sherlock asked, joining him.

"And how? Have you the keys?"

"With these." He pulled out two hairpins from his pocket and opened the lock.

"Who are you, Arsene Lupin?"

"No, it’s just that I always forget the keys of my locker somewhere, so I have to find another way to open it, and I've learned to lock pick."

John laughed. "You are cool."

"Seriously?"

"Sure. And thanks for the help, but now I have to go."

Sherlock waved a goodbye and John turned around several times to reciprocate.

 

Two days later there was a new training session, but John came early, there was still no one on the field, so he went to the dance studio, where the class had just ended. A bevy of girls in leotard passed past him and giggled, and John scratched his head, embarrassed. Then Sherlock came out and looked at him wide-eyed.

"J-John, ah…” he stammered “What are you doing here?"

"Hello! I wanted to know if your ankle was fine."

"It’s fine."

"Glad to know. And... uh... how was your lesson?"

"Fine" Sherlock repeated, aware that he probably looked like idiot, but John’s visit was unexpected and he didn’t know how to react.

The two walked together down the hall and John noticed that the dancer didn’t wear the scarf. He was about to ask something about it, when they heard the voices of two mothers who had come to take their daughters home.

"That Holmes is in the ballet class along with your daughter?"

"Of course, and it is the teacher's favorite: that this year he will have the lead role in Christmas dance recital."

"I don’t say that he isn’t good at dancing, but as a parent I think he should play football or basketball like all boys of his age, or there’ll be rumors about him."

"Oh, but they already are: my daughter said he doesn’t look at any of them in the way a boy looks at a girl."

"Poor parents, what a disgrace."

John turned pale, but Sherlock merely tied the scarf around the neck and went through the hall as if those women didn’t exist.

John realized the meaning that the scarf held for Sherlock: it was a blanket, albeit symbolic, to get away from the bad things that others were saying behind him, it was the shield to protect himself and his heart, and it hurt John thinking that Sherlock wore it almost always.

"Do you think he heard us?" one of the mothers asked

"Yes, he did," John said in a loud voice, and was happy to see them blush with shame.

 

From that day on, John started to go to the dance studio before his training session, so he could spend some time with Sherlock; he saw him dance several times and could see that the boy was without doubt the best in his class: he has the complete control over his body, his jumps and lifts left breathless and left John enchanted.

At first, he thought that the teacher would have kicked him out, instead the old woman was thrilled to know that Sherlock had a friend. Sometimes they stayed there to drink a juice and chat, and then John accompanied him to the door, throwing murderous looks around to make sure no one spoke ill of him, and now, when Sherlock tied the scarf around the neck, it was only for protect himself from the cold.

He had invited him to assist to his training session several times, but Sherlock had always rejected, without giving any explanation; John thought that he was not interested, and tried not to be too disappointed, but soon he discovered that it wasn’t the reason.

One afternoon in mid-December, John was in the locker room, putting on the uniform, and saw that two of their mates were missing.

"What happened to Jake and Robert? They don’t want to train with this cold?"

"Unfortunately, it’s not like that” Andy snorted “This morning they closed a little shit of the first year in his locker as a joke, but the boy went nuts with a panic attack, and two bitchy friends of him told everything to the headmaster: that asshole suspended them and told the coach, who decided to do the same."

"Asshole, he too" Chris echoed.

"It's terrible."

"Ah, I know: those two are regular on the team, but the coach doesn’t want to listen. What the fuck, it was just a joke! It’s not their fault if that fag freaked out because he is afraid of the dark."

John actually meant something quite different: it was terrible what Jake and Robert had done to that poor boy, it was beyond the joke, it was bullying, full stop, and the suspension was well deserved. And in that moment he realized that his teammates were the reason why Sherlock never came to see his practice: someone like him, ephebic, delicate, a ballet dancer, would be the perfect target for their wickedness.

But despite he was annoyed by his teammates behaviour, John didn’t rebuke them and didn’t said anything, continuing to fold his clothes; he knew it was wrong, that there was only one right side in that story, but it was like being part of a team pushed him to behave like the others, to avoid hassles.

 

Meanwhile Sherlock was increasingly excited about the approaching date of the dance recital and talked of little else when they were together. John was pleased that Sherlock was no longer the grim and grumpy little boy who had met a few months before: now he was smiling, talkative and looked at him straight in the eye.

"I can’t wait to see you dancing” John said “Have I to buy a ticket or reserve a seat?"

"No, it's just a minor recital."

"Ah, sorry, I'm not an expert on these things."

"But you... do you want to come, seriously? To see me?"

John smiled: "I would not miss it for anything in the world."

One day the dance lesson began later than usual for a problem to the electrical system, so Sherlock found himself out of the studio at the same time that the rugby practice ened. Andy led the group of teammates with his girlfriend, a cheerleader, and all the others followed them. They were discussing where to go, when the girl pointed at Sherlock and laughed.

John knew immediately that it would not end well and tried to divert their attention elsewhere.

"Do you know the new pizza place that opened near here?"

"For fuck sake, John! Do you only think about eating? Cara was telling me something."

"Do you see that guy over there?"

"That beanpole? So?"

"He is in the dance class with my schoolmate Tonia."

Andy made a cruel smile and looked at the others.

"Now we have fun."

"Andy, please..."

"What's the matter, John? Don’t be a spoilsport."

"If the coach finds out, we end up in trouble."

"Don’t worry, he's already gone."

Andy took something from the backpack of Cara and crossed the street, heading for Sherlock.

"Hey! Hey, I’m talking to you, young lady!"

Sherlock walked faster, bowing his head: he hadn’t seen yet that John was also in the group.

Andy wasn’t very happy to be ignored and reached for him. "Hey, listen to me! Look, you forgot your dress, girl!"

That said, he threw the cheerleader uniform of his girlfriend on Sherlock, causing a burst of coarse laughter from his teammate. Only then Sherlock looked up and saw John: the boy wasn’t laughing, was standing on the sidelines, but he didn’t do or say anything in his defense.

Sherlock didn’t cry, didn’t blush, didn’t respond to the provocation, he just clutched in his blue scarf and walked away without looking at him, and John felt as if he was the one who threw that uniform at him.

  
  


The next day he told his mother he was not feeling well and stayed home, and he actually felt sick: each time he recalled the hurt and disappointed look on Sherlock’s face, his stomach contracted with remorse.

Sherlock had trusted him, had lowered his defenses and let John to get close to him, and John had rewarded him by behaving exactly like Andy.

A few days later he showed up at the dance studio to beg his forgiveness, but Mrs. Hudson informed him that he hadn’t come to the class.

John bowed his head and left the building, but a girl in leotard and leg warmers reached him: she was one of the Sherlock dance mates and had a marked Italian accent.

"John Watson?"

"Yes. How do you know my name?"

The girl put her hands on her hips and looked at him angrily. "Because Sherlock was always talking about you."

"Was?"

"Yes, past tense, until a week ago."

"How do you know what happened?"

"I am Tonia: the day after Cara was bragging about it at school."

John swallowed hard and looked away, which seemed to anger Tonia even more.

"Cara is a bitch and her boyfriend is even worse, but from Sherlock’s words I expected something different from you."

"Well..."

"I’ll never speak to Cara again, I don’t care if she’s popular because she’s a cheerleader and fucks the most wanted boy of the school, I can’t forgive her for what she did. Now you have to decide how to deal with those troglodytes of your teammates."

That said, Tonia turned and left him alone.

She was right: he couldn’t pass over what had happened.

He arrived late at the training, ignored the rebuke of the coach, and went into the locker room.

"Hey” Andy was saying “I heard from Cara that the fagot is not going to the dance lessons anymore."

"That’s good for him” Chris laughed “Maybe away from that place he’ll grow some balls."

"I don’t think so! Bet he's still in his pink bedroom crying."

He did a poor impression of a whining child, but was interrupted by John, who jumped on him in a fury.

"Stop it, asshole! You don’t know a fucking thing about Sherlock, and if you get closer to him once again, I'll kill you!"

John kicked and punched blindly, but after learning that he was taking the dancer's defense, the other rugby players railed on him; the noise attracted the coach, who took several minutes before being able to calm down the boys, and then demanded to know what had happened.

"Watson! Why did you attack the captain for no reason?"

John stood up, holding his arm with a grimace: probably it was broken.

"Because he's an asshole," John said, spitting on the ground saliva and blood.

"I'll put you out of the team with immediate effect."

"Don’t bother, I leave, I don’t want to stay here anymore."

 

The day of the recital all the dancers were excited and kept peering from the curtain in search of friends and relatives; Sherlock should have been happy, too: that was his time, the reward for the strict diet, for the hard work during dance classes, for the pain and the bleeding toes. His parents were in the theater, proud of him as always, but this time he wished that someone else were there. Too bad that in the end John was like all the other boys.

"Sherlock” Tonia touched him lightly on the shoulder “It's time."

The recital was a success, the dancers came out twice to receive applause, and they found many flower bouquets in the dressing room. While the girls laughed and read the notes, Sherlock got dressed and went out from the back of the theater, to avoid the crowd.

There was only one person standing on the pavement, a blond boy with a bouquet of red roses. The first thought of Sherlock was to turn around and come back in theater, but then he noticed the bruising on John's face, and his right arm in a sling.

"John, what happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"It doesn’t seem nothing to me" Sherlock objected, going towards him.

"It’s not important” John lifted the bouquet and handed it to him “You was wonderful tonight, you left me breathless."

Sherlock took them without a word.

"Forgive me Sherlock, I behaved like a jerk, just like everyone else and you don’t deserve this. But don’t worry, no one will bully you anymore."

Sherlock reached out and touched a bruise on his cheek, and the realization of what John had done made him shiver.

"For me?"

John nodded.

"But how will you do with the team?"

"I left it."

"Why?"

"Because you are the most important thing to me. Please tell me that you forgive me. "

_ "Tell me I can be closer to you again," _ he prayed silently.

John used the scarf to pull him and when he put it away, Sherlock didn’t object.

"Thank you," John murmured, and kissed him.


	12. Black cab ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Different first meeting.  
> Let's rise the rating, shall we?

John looked alternately at the clock and at the luggage belt: the flight had landed with a two-hour delay and his suitcase seemed to want to do the same; it was morning already, and not only he had lost the stag party of his cousin, at this rate he would also lose the wedding ceremony: he didn’t even have the time to go to the hotel to get changed, luckily he was just one of the guests and not the best man. Actually he didn’t even really want to be there, because at the wedding there were only relatives who he hadn’t seen for years, but he had found no valid excuses for not participating.

Finally his suitcase arrived, he caught it and ran to the cab park: the queue of people wasn’t very long, but there were few cabs.

"Some are on strike," said a businessman in line before him.

"Just what I need," John sighed.

When his turn came, there was just one cab left; John was about to open the car door when a slim and slender hand rested on his, making him start. John looked up and found himself in front of a tall man, with curly dark hair and light eyes. Outstanding.

"I’ll take this cab" proclaimed the man's baritone voice, and John needed a moment to register his words, then shook himself.

"You wish! I was here first."

"I’ve an emergency," the dark-haired man said.

John looked at him carefully, trying to not be distracted by his remarkable physical aspect: the man didn’t look frightened, agitated or concerned about the health of a friend or a relative, he was just incredibly annoyed that John hadn’t already given up, apologizing for having wasted his time. His face was damn expressive, given that he could communicate all this only with the discontented fold of the lips, but it was not the point.

"Yes, tell me another one" John saying, trying to open the door again, but the stranger insisted.

"An emergency is not only a person who is ill."

"How do you know I was thinking about that?"

"It’s obvious, and in other circumstances I would gladly explain it to you, but today I have no time: a man is going to destroy the evidence for a murder case and I must stop it."

"If it’s the case, alert the police."

"I can’t, those idiots have forbidden me to take part in this case. I absolutely have to go to Richmond."

"But I have to go to my cousin's wedding in Harrow."

"I know it very well” the stranger snorted “This is why I find it inconceivable that you don’t let me take this cab, you don’t even want to go to that wedding."

"How can you tell? I didn’t say anything!" John felt he should have been much more upset than he was with this man and his absurd claims, however he was more intrigued by his words (and also by his handsome face, to be totally honest). How did he know about the wedding? Had he a lucky guess?

"I do not guess, I deduce," said the dark-haired man, offended.

Here, he had done it again.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"I can’t let you take this cab: there is a strike and who knows when the next wil come."

"You’ll have more fun here than at the wedding."

"This is possible” John granted John “But it doesn’t change the fact that I got here first."

"Listen, you two, decide” the taxi driver said “I don’t have all day."

John spread his arms: it wasn’t his fault that the other man was so stubborn.

"I have an idea” the driver said “If I take a longer route, I can leave this gentleman in Richmond and then you in Harrow. You divide the cost of the ride."

It was a good compromise and since neither of them wanted to waste time anymore, they accepted.

The cab was immediately stuck in traffic, and John realized that it would be a long journey.

"John Watson" he said, extending his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes" replied the other, then began to type quickly on his phone, not giving any sign of wanting to explain to John how he had guessed all those things about him. However after a while Sherlock felt John's gaze on him, because he put off the phone with a sigh.

"For the umpteenth time: I don’t guess, I deduce."

"How?"

"Looking."

"Just that?"

"And using the brain."

"Ah well, I knew that there was a trick."

It was a stupid joke, but Sherlock’s lips curled in an amused smile.

"And how you’ve understood all those things about me?"

"Fundamental from your luggage: in addition to a usual suitcase you have a coat bag to not wrinkle an elegant dress, the zipper wasn’t closed well and I saw the light gray suit, so it’s not a funeral, probably a wedding, but not your own, plus I noticed the light pink tie and handkerchief, a quirk of the bride who wants all the guests to have something that refers to the color of her dress."

"Yes, indeed."

"Horrible taste she has, by the way."

"I agree. And from what you has understood that I’m not enthusiastic to participate?" John  asked, relaxing in his seat: despite the first impression wasn’t the best, now he was having fun with Sherlock's deductions.

"The package in your hand contains two cups of tea with saucers: an appropriate gift for the occasion, but cheap."

"I could be dirt poor."

"You traveled in business class."

"Now you must explain me how-?"

"The marron glacee package that’s in your jacket pocket: the British Airways offers it only to business class passengers. Back to us: you was abroad for work, but came back to London for this wedding. If it were the wedding of someone dear to you, you would come at least one day ago to the bachelor party, to be together, you also would care more about your appearance, instead you simply shaved during the flight, but you haven’t been to the hairdresser, a sign that you don’t care too much. And since we got into the taxi no one has called you, so they don’t care, too."

John leaned against the seat with a chuckle of disbelief.

"Are you sure that we have never meet before?"

_ "Even if I’d remember a face like yours" _ John thought.

"I've had something wrong?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"No, you didn’t. Do you deduced something else about me?"

Sherlock glanced at the traffic, yet very slow, then turned slightly toward John and a felice smile appeared on his face.

"You like men," he said confidently.

John looked startled at the driver, but fortunately the partition window of the cab was closed and he hadn’t heard anything.

"I-I don’t..."

"This man in particular” Sherlock continued Sherlock, undaunted “and you didn’t do much to hide."

"Look, I'm sorry if I did something inappropriate."

"Mh, I don’t at all, if anything, it makes this trip a lot less boring."

Before John could ask what he meant, a bold hand rested on his right knee.

"What are you doing, are you crazy?" John hissed looking towards the driver.

"Just relax: he will notice us only if you struggle."

"You can’t" John began, but when Sherlock's hand moved up his thigh, he did nothing to stop it. Rather, his traitorous legs parted a bit on their will.

His brain was screaming that it was a bad idea, morally wrong, that he would be arrested for indecent exposure and that Sherlock should not be in his right mind if he did certain things so lightly with a stranger, but a part of him found Sherlock magnetic and irresistible.

"Do you do things like that often?" John asked, trying to mask the anxiety in his voice, while Sherlock's hand had almost reached his groin.

"No," Sherlock said simply.

There was no reason why John had to believe him, but something, in Sherlock’s eyes and voice, told him that he was sincere.

"Then why?" John asked, completely wrong-footed.

"There's something about you that I still can’t decipher; it fascinates me."

John stomach did a strange somersault, as if he were still on the plane and suddenly there had been an air pocket; he tried to remember if anyone had ever called fascinating, but he couldn’t.

Finally Sherlock's hand slipped on the fly of his trousers, brushing him with a light and provocative touch, never stroking him it for real, in an erotic torture that lasted several minutes, until John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pushed his hand forcefully against his groin, making him feel his erection.

Sherlock's fingers moved along the contours of his cock, hidden by cloth, and the man gave a low moan of satisfaction feeling that it hardened more and more under his touch, and that deep voice made John’s hip move on their accord.

John looked toward the driver: once again he hadn’t noticed anything, but the thrill of being discovered made explode his excitement.

Thanks to the movement of his pelvis, Sherlock's hand found the tip of his penis and closed two fingers around it, and soon the trousers was stained with secretions.

"Now I understand” Sherlock murmured Sherlock “You love the danger."

"Mh" was John’s only answer, through pursed lips.

"Just like me" Sherlock declared, moving closer to his ear, and John was seized by an impulse to grab him by the curls and kiss him relentlessly, and he had to use all his will power to keep his hands to himself.

A drop of sweat ran down his temple, while Sherlock continued relentlessly with his caresses, continuously varying the pressure of the hand, now light, now strong, now languidly slow, now fast. John cursed silently, feeling the testicles contracted: what Sherlock was doing was magnificent, but it would never have been enough to make him come, then he would remain excited and frustrated for the rest of the day.

He was about to ask him to stop when he heard the zipper of his trousers to be lowered and a moment later his penis was freed from the constraint; Sherlock’s big, warm hand surrounded him, finally giving him the stimulation he needed. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but Sherlock stopped immediately his movement.

"No John, look."

John looked down at his lap, where the red and swollen glans appeared and disappeared in  Sherlock’s fist, oozing clear droplets of precome. It was an incredibly erotic show: there was a something perverse in observing himself, John never did and now he tasted the feeling of something forbidden; moreover, keeping his eyes fixed on himself, John no longer looked at the taxi driver and, for all he knew, they could have been discovered.

"Oh..." he sobbed, feeling the orgasm approaching.

Sherlock fingers slid down, pinching his testicles, and John barely had time to take a handkerchief from his pocket to collect the sperm. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from screaming and bent forward, while Sherlock indulged the contractions of his cock with his hand, hand that John would cover with gold.

"Well, I'm almost there," Sherlock said.

"Eh... what?" John muttered, still dazed.

"The man who is going to destroy the evidence, I have to stop him."

"I thought you were joking!"

"I never joke on some things."

"But... is it dangerous?"

"I told you: I love danger. Well, thank you for making this trip very enjoyable." Sherlock pressed his full and soft lips on John’s temple, licking the sweat, and even though he had just come, John wanted nothing more than being on a bed, with Sherlock kissing him everywhere.

Sherlock sat up, opened the partition and gave the driver some money, then got out and walked away briskly.

John didn’t even think for a moment, he forget about the wedding, his suitcase, everything, h got out from the still moving cab, and ran after him.

"Sherlock, wait!"

"John..."

John shrugged. "I love danger too, remember? And then” he licked his lips “I have to return the favor."

Sherlock’s pupils dilated at the suggestion.

"Come on John, let's hurry."


	13. John and Sherlock bicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship

John came home extremely hungry that afternoon: he was at the clinic since early morning, had to cover the shift of a colleague who was home sick, had ended up skipping lunch and now he was about to faint from hunger.

Fortunately in the fridge there was a hearty portion of Russian salad that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for them the day before, and he wanted to eat it all, to hell with the cholesterol.

He opened the fridge mouth watering, almost beginning to savor the flavor already, and...

frowned, puzzled: rivulets of brown liquid covered the surface of the Russian salad, and it was really weird, because John didn’t remember that there was also a decoration made with balsamic vinegar on it.

Indeed that substance hadn’t the scent of balsamic vinegar, it stunk strongly of decomposition.

He looked up slowly to the top shelf, already knowing what he would find, and in fact there was one of Sherlock's experiments, a piece of rotting meat that was dripping its liquids on the underlying food. He slammed the door of the fridge shouted, "Sherlock!" with such force that the windows shook.

"Up here," replied the seraphic voice of his companion.

Since they were together, John had moved to Sherlock’s room, and the detective had immediately took the opportunity to turn his old room upstairs in a small home laboratory.

John went up the stairs with heavy steps and opened the door.

"Sherlock!"

"Hello John, what can I do for you?"

"Do you dare to ask?"

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and frowned. "You are angry."

"Brilliant deduction."

"With me."

"Oh, that's even better."

The detective examined rapidly his actions of the day, looking for something he could have done to infuriate his blogger, but found nothing.

"What have I done?"

"The refrigerator, Sherlock!"

"It’s in the kitchen as usual, and the last time I opened it, it was working perfectly."

"I bet that you have opened it for putting in that crap that I found!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is that why you're angry? I did exactly what you told me to do long ago: I kept my experiment separated from your precious food, they aren’t even on the same shelf."

"Too bad that all the rot dripped down."

"Oh." He hadn’t considered this collateral damage.

"What are you going to do to fix it?"

"Apologize?" Sherlock ventured: he wasn’t sure what the procedure to be followed in those cases was.

"And..?"

"And what? I apologize, you accept the apology and the incident is forgotten."

John laughed hysterically, throwing his head back. "No, sir: you have to clean up the mess in the fridge, too."

 

"Okay, I’ll do it later."

"No Sherlock, I know how long your 'laters' are, you do it now!"

"But-"

"Now I go out looking for something to eat and when I come back I want to find that fridge bright and clean as the day it left the factory."

John went off without waiting for an answer and went into the bedroom to change his shirt, still angry and hungry, and the punishment he had given Sherlock seemed too little. He saw the slew of shirts of his companion, perfectly ironed and tidy and, impulsively, he pulled down them from the hangers one by one, crumpled them with childish satisfaction and left the mess in the middle of the room: maybe this would teach Sherlock to be more careful when he brought home his crappy experiments.

He took a fish and chips and a beer from a van in Regent's Park, and when he had filled his stomach, he felt much calmer, so he went back home and opened the refrigerator: he could see that Sherlock had done the job quickly and reluctantly, as he had put back the food at random, but at least it was clean.

The detective was sitting in his armchair, decidedly sulky, and John shook his head in disbelief: after having made him find that disgusting surprise in the fridge, he dared to sulk?

Since he didn’t want to indulge his whims, he decided to not speak to him, at least until Sherlock insisted on behaving like a child and not as a reasonable adult.

 

The next morning, John woke up late, ran to the bathroom and took the razor and the bottle of shaving cream, but when he squeezed it in the palm of the hand, from the canister came out only an asthmatic breath and no foam. He waved the canister and found that indeed it was empty, yet until two days ago it was almost full, how could it be?

Of course, Sherlock! That had to be his childish revenge for the shirts.

_ "Is that so? Do you want war? You will be satisfied,"  _ the former soldier thought, then pulled back the shower curtain searching for the expensive shower gel of his boyfriend, with the intent to spill it in the toilet, but Sherlock had foreseen his move and had hidden it. John thought for a moment, then had another idea: in the early morning Sherlock was still half-asleep, until he drank three coffees at least, so he went into the kitchen, took the plastic wrap and unrolled it over the toilet. Too bad he couldn’t stay to witness what would happen.

He run to work and throughout the day he endured the puzzled looks of colleagues and patients for his unkempt beard, evidently Sherlock wasn’t the only one to prefer the doctors clean-shaven.

In the evening he returned home, finding Sherlock lying on the sofa, sulking as usual. On the floor was a pair of brown slippers, different from the regular ones that his boyfriend used: oops, it looked like that morning someone had peed on his feet. His triumph was short-lived, anyway, because when he turned around, saw that Sherlock had disassembled the TV, and obviously that evening there was a tv show John wanted to see.

 

Thus began an absurd war of nerves between the two, made of silence and small boycotts: toothpaste smeared on the bathroom mirror, the morning newspaper thrown into the fireplace, the keys moved from their usual place, the slides of Sherlock’s microscope hidden somewhere, their laptop formatted, in a constant escalation, which culminated the day when John scattered some Lego bricks in front of their bedroom door, because Sherlock was always barefoot at home; waiting for the detective to wake, he made a hot tea and went into the living room, ready to sit in his chair.

Almost simultaneously Sherlock left the room, stepped on the bricks and cried out in pain, leaning clumsy against the wall and knocking a small painting, which fell down: the glass broke and some splints wounded Sherlock in the feet. Meanwhile John sat down, but the pillow didn’t hold his weight, causing him to sink, because Sherlock had emptied the inside of the armchair: falling backwards, John spilled hot tea on his arm and chest (and thankfully only there).

The doctor straightened up and ran to the kitchen sink to bathe in cold water in an attempt to limit the burn: fortunately the sweater and the shirt were like a shield and the burn wasn’t serious.

Meanwhile Sherlock limped up to the table and took a rag to dab the blood.

"Do you see what you've done? You have exaggerated, Sherlock!" John shouted.

"Me? You were the one who started this absurd and ridiculous battle that don’t even know what it is."

"What do you mean you do not know?"

"Exactly what I said, I just did the same things that you did."

John blinked a few moments to analyze what his companion has said. "You mean you imitated me? But why?"

"You're the expert on relationships, so I thought it was the procedure to follow when you fight."

"Oh, Sherlock… it was for the refrigerator, that's why I threw your shirts to the ground."

"But I've cleaned the fridge, I thought that chapter was closed."

Well, it was true.

John covered his eyes with his hands: Sherlock had never had a relationship before him and often he didn’t know what to do, so he just followed his lead, as he often did in those situations. And, doing so, they unwittingly unleashed a kind of The War of the Roses, devoid of any sense. And John was so focused on thinking up pranks to do to Sherlock, that he had completely forgotten the episode of the refrigerator: and it had to be him, the expert in the field of relationships.

A chuckle shook him, then John opened a drawer, took a clean rag and knelt before him. "Use this, the one you have in your hand is dirty."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, it's nothing. And the pranks end here."

"For me it’s just fine. Now you tell me why we started this thing?"

"Simple: because we are two idiots."

John stood up and kissed him on the forehead, enshrining the peace.


	14. A random body part appears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have cheated a little with this prompt. First time, rating E, PWP

John looked around, then sighed heavily.

"Sherlock, where did you put my laptop? I must send mail to my sister and it’s urgent."

"It is on the bottom of my wardrobe, locked inside a metal box."

John frowned: he was accustomed to Sherlock quirks, but that hadn’t any sense.

"Why did you do that?"

"I’m conducting an experiment on the strength of the wifi signal, and what could block it."

"Is it for the case of the theft of personal informations?"

"Yes."

"Very interesting, but I still have to send that email."

"But John..." Sherlock protested, pouting.

"Five minutes: I write my mail and then put it back in place” the former soldier said, going down the hall “Well, this is ridiculous, now I ask permission to use my computer."

Sherlock had forgotten to mention that not only the laptop was inside a metal box, but the box was covered with books, clothes, a chemistry set, and several other boxes, which John had to move in order to achieve his goal.

A small box tipped over, and its contents scattered on the ground, making John jumping back: inside there was a small bottle of clear liquid and a realistic pink dildo. The doctor was aghast a few moments, then his brain was bombarded by millions of questions: why Sherlock had sex toys? It was for personal use? It was just another experiment? And now what he should do? Ask him something? Put everything in place and turn a blind eye?

He had always believed that his flatmate was completely uninterested in sex and that discovery was a small Copernican revolution for him; of course, there was a good chance that it was there only for scientific purposes, but how could he broach the subject?

_ "Oh sorry, I found the dildo: you have it just to solve a case, right?" _

No, it was out of the question.

He walked over to the box and watched the object: luckily it seemed clean, so he grabbed it quickly form the base and put back in the box together with the bottle, that was lubricant, almost empty. This didn’t testifying in favor of the hypothesis of the scientific experiment.

John heard Sherlock’s footsteps near the door and put the box in his place in a hurry.

"John, how long does it take you to take a laptop... ah..."

Not quickly enough, however, because when Sherlock opened the door, John was trying to bury the box under a pile of clothes.

"Ah, you know what? That email is not so urgent, so, finish your experiment, no problem."

John cleared his throat and stood up, while Sherlock was looking away and seemed very interested in the bedspread designs. The detective claimed to have complete mastery of his transport, but right now his body was betraying him with a diffuse redness. John was just as embarrassed and he also felt guilty for making Sherlock uncomfortable, so he walked past him and shut himself in his room upstairs. He paced around, scratching his head, then sat down on the bed: that was ridiculous! He simply found that Sherlock had impulses and desires as all other human beings, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Of course, the fact that there was a dildo instead of an inflatable doll or a fake vagina said several things about Sherlock sexual preferences, but in the end it wasn’t a surprise, given the cold, almost glacial indifference that his flatmate had when he looked at beautiful women.

Now he just had to shake off that ridiculous sense of embarrassment, forget what he had seen, because it was none of his business, and go on with his life as if nothing happened.

His plan worked for a few hours: at dinner the two of them behaved like usual: they watched tv together, as every night, John found his laptop on the coffee table, and finally wrote the email to his sister, then wished him goodnight, and went to his room.

Except that, for some strange reason, he couldn’t fall asleep, and his thoughts went back to the discovery he had made that afternoon; He wondered if Sherlock was using often the dildo, or only when he had to vent adrenaline and tension. Unconsciously he licked his lips, as his thoughts drifted in increasingly explicit territories: that toy wasn’t small, required a long preparation. And how he used it? The dildo had a suction cup, it could be fixed to the wall or on the floor and...

John growled, ashamed, and hid his head under the pillow. He couldn’t have that kind of thoughts about his best friend! Yet a part of him didn’t think the same way, given how he was excited.

The following days the situation got worse for the poor doctor, because the more he tried not to think about Sherlock and his damned dildo, the more his mind offered him an increasingly flourishing of erotic images: Sherlock kneeling on the floor, moving his thighs up and down, Sherlock in the shower, pushing himself slowly against the wall, pushing the dildo within himself and masturbating with delight. And his favorite: Sherlock lying on the bed on his back, knees up, legs open, and an unstable and shaky hand that moved the dildo. All sense of shame forgotten, in the latter scenario John was in bed with him, stopped Sherlock’s hand and grabbed the base of the dildo, leading the game, deciding how long making him suffer and squirming on the bed, before allowing him to come, and in the meantime, John moved his hand fast and hard on himself.

He wondered how much longer the fantasies would have been enough for him.

One night he was about to fall asleep, when he thought he heard an unmistakable moan, and a shiver of pleasure shook his body: one floor below him, Sherlock was using the dildo. He found himself at the door of his bedroom even before wondering what the hell he was doing, his sweaty hand on the door handle, the heavy breathing, the mind split in half between shame and desire.

"I'm mad” John murmured “there is no other explanation."

Walking barefoot, he descended the stairs slowly, avoiding creaking steps, and reached the door of Sherlock’s room as if he were walking in a dream. The door was slightly ajar, and the sound of sheets rustling seemed strong in the silence of the night.

 

Sherlock initially had been embarrassed by the discovery that John had made in his room, and was grateful that his blogger had decided to turn a blind eye.

But there was one thing that John didn’t know: Sherlock had started using that dildo because of him; before knowing John he had never have sexual impulses of any kind, but, since John had come into his life, he began to have those thoughts. The first times, troubled, he had tried to ignore them, but his body didn’t want to be overlooked once again, and as he couldn’t manifest to John his desires, he had bought that toy.

John often wandered in his underwear around the flat, and Sherlock had many occasions to observe him discreetly, guessing shape and size of his penis, and then he had ordered a customized toy, so he could pretend it was John to bring him to ecstasy night after night.

Sherlock believed that the incident a few days before would be forgotten without further consequences, instead he had started to notice a subtle change in John's behavior: it was as if he saw him for the first time in a new light, and his gaze was neither of disgust or pity, rather than it spoke about an increasing interest, as if even the former soldier had the same fantasies that had tormented him for months.

That night he decided to risk it all out: usually he was very cautious when he used the dildo, he locked the door and didn’t emit a sound, instead of that night he left the door ajar and moaned loudly as he slid the dildo inside himself.

John put his hand on the door and listened: in the dark, he couldn’t guess Sherlock’s outline on the bed, he had to make do with moans and groans (and he shouldn’t even do that, to be honest).

A light creaking noise from the door betrayed John’s presence, but it seemed that the doctor wasn’t going to come in, prey to his moral scruples, or perhaps he didn’t want more than that, only a tempting fantasy to replay in his mind at the night.

Sherlock picked up his courage and called John’s name several times, while touching himself.

John froze: he had been discovered? Did Sherlock thought about him as he was pleasuring himself?

"John, please..." Sherlock whispered in the dark.

Then Sherlock knew John was there, now it was up to him to make his move: he could get away quietly from the room, turn a blind eye, again, and live just with fantasies.

Or he could have the same courage of Sherlock.

He opened the door and walked over to the bed, turning on the small lamp on the bedside table: the yellow light lit up the sight of Sherlock lying on his back, the skin glistening with sweat, his full lips parted, his chest that rose and fell heavily, his penis dripping precome on his stomach. In his fantasies John merely use the dildo on him, but now, with the real thing in front of him, it didn’t seem enough. It didn’t seem anything.

"Sherlock..." he murmured, as if to ask him if it was really what he wanted.

Sherlock parted his legs even more, put a finger over the silicone toy and said, "this is you," and something snapped inside John: he got rid of his clothes as if they were on fire, knelt between Sherlock's legs and pulled out the dildo, making him shiver, then he put the tip of his penis against his hole.

"You're wrong” he said, pushing his hips forward and forcing it to open “This is me."

"Jo-John!"

Sherlock had prepared himself meticulously, and John slid inside him like a hot knife through butter; he slipped in and out of him, closing his eyes in ecstasy: his fantasies paled in front of all this, the heat and contractions of Sherlock body around him, inflaming his senses.

John lay on him, stealing a kiss from those perfect lips, that Sherlock welcomed with a contented grunt, and then John slid a hand between their bodies, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No-no, I would not last” he said with a note of shyness in his voice “you're so... you're too..."

"Christ” - John groaned “if you keep saying these things I will not last, too."

Sherlock wrapped his legs on his back, and John lost control, sank his teeth into the creamy and soft skin of his shoulder, and Sherlock arched his back, welcoming him even deeper inside him. John lifted his head and kissed him again, taking away his breath, and suddenly felt the warm seed of Sherlock wetting his abdomen.

_ "It was me to do this to him, not a silicone toy" _ and the thought was enough to make him reach the ecstasy.

John slipped out of him, but he didn’t move, wishing to remain into Sherlock’s embrace a little more longer, then, moving one leg, he touched the dildo and let out a chuckle.

"What's funny?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"All this” John held up his hand to indicate the two of them “What we found out about each other from a silicone sex toy silicone” he laughed louder “I don’t know, it's really crazy."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, like us."


	15. There's a riding crop

"John, have you five minutes for me?"

Alan, a colleague, leaned on the door of his studio with a hesitant look in his eyes.

"Sure, Alan, come in. Is there a problem?" John immediately thought about a theft of medicines from the clinic or a budget issue.

The other doctor closed the door behind him and sat down, but seemed still reluctant to talk, so John encouraged him with one of his calming smiles he offered to the hypochondriac patients.

"Well, I talk about it with you because we know each other for some time: it’s about me and my wife, lately things have... cooled down between us."

John sat up straight and nodded in a very professional way: he imagined that Alan wanted to ask him a prescription for Viagra.

"Obviously I will have to make a andrological visit first. You know, it's the procedure."

"What? No, you didn’t understand! I don’t a have erectile dysfunction."

"So how can I help you? I’m not a family counselor."

"It's just that sex between us has become a bit boring, it has lost that thrill and that fire we had at the beginning, you know what I mean."

"It's normal, I think, you have been married for several years, but still I don’t understand how I can help."

"I was hoping you could give me some suggestions to add some spice to our sex life."

John looked aghast.

"And why are you asking me? Did you take me for a porn actor?"

"Well, you're gay, and I know that gay sex is terrific. Maybe some of your ideas can also be adapted to us straight couples."

"You watch too much Queer as Folk, Alan: Sherlock and I have just normal sex and nothing else."

"Oh, so even your relationship cooled down?"

"No, not at all” John denied it with some vehemence “My relationship is great, as always."

"Sure, sure," the other doctor replied, condescendingly, and John didn’t like that.

When Alan took his leave, John heard him mutter, "I had better ask on Grindr".

John tried to shrug off the incident: when a relationship was fine, like the one between him and Sherlock, there was no need for extreme sex or quirks of various kinds.

 

"Sherlock, are you home?” John asked that night, once back at home “I must tell this: do you know my colleague, Alan? Even you can’t imagine what he asked me."

The doctor stopped, realizing that he was talking alone: Sherlock hadn’t come back yet; he probably was still at Barts or with Greg. John kicked off his shoes, picked up the remote and turned on the TV, sat on the couch with some satisfaction, stretched his feet on the coffee table and frowned, annoyed: his heels had touched a sort of stick.

He looked more closely and his eyes widened: there was a riding crop on there.

He wasn’t his, nor it could belong to Mrs. Hudson, so it was Sherlock’s one, but why he had left there, in plain sight on the table?

He rubbed his hands on his knees, nervous: his thoughts immediately ran to the conversation he had with Alan that morning.

Maybe he had been wrong basking in the security of his relationship, perhaps Sherlock was getting tired of the sex they had, and this was his way of telling him. Of course, it should be like that: a man like Sherlock found boring everything that was ordinary and repetitive, John had been naive to think that sex would be different.

He picked up the object, weighed it and waved it in the air: so Sherlock wanted to try something new in their relationship. In principle he had no objection to experience new things, but Sherlock had never given him the impression of being a masochist who got pleasure from being beaten, indeed he complained when John tugged his hair too strong.

Or maybe he was wrong again: he had already assumed that Sherlock was the one who wanted to be beaten with the crop, and he was taking everything for granted again, even if it had been that led him to not be aware of Sherlock discontent.

He folded the leather tool and grimaced: it was hard and not very flexible, it should hurt rather badly, and he wasn’t sure he would like that. But if he tried, perhaps he would change his mind. And Sherlock had never made any request to John during intimacy, relying entirely to him and his desires: for once could try to oblige.

He stretched one leg on the table again, picked up the crop and hit himself on the thigh.

A second later he got up howling with pain and hopping around the living room: it hurt like hell! How could anyone take pleasure from such a painful experience? It only made him curse.

He rubbed his aching thigh and thought: in the movies, people were always hit on his back, perhaps it didn’t hurt so much, there. With an awkward contortion he tried to hit himself, first over his shoulder and then from the side, but apart an unpleasant tingling of the skin, the idea of using the riding crop still remained daunting.

He and Sherlock would have to discuss the matter.

"J-John? What are you doing?"

Sherlock came in and looked at him as if he were crazy.

"I was trying to... you know... but I think it’s not for me, I'm sorry."

"Of course it's not for you” Sherlock approached him and took the crop from his hands “you aren’t a horse."

"What?"

"This is a crop, it’s used on horses," he said, enunciating the words slowly, as if he was talking to a retarded child.

"And why is it in our living room?"

"My parents forced me to participate in a polo race for charity."

"Oh." John suddenly felt very stupid (and a bit relieved that Sherlock hadn’t fantasies of beating him).

"Why, what did you think?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" John shouted.

Sherlock smiled and laid the crop on the mantelpiece.

"Occam's razor, John."

"Yes, yes, I understand," John waved his hand in annoyance, trying to backpedal from that awkward situation.

"And then” Sherlock kissed him on the temple “We don’t need anything like that."


	16. Sherlock ruffles his hair

The reasons why Sherlock ruffled his hair was the most diverse: frustration, anger, impatience, boredom.

He ruffled it when he got up in the morning to ward off sleep, stroked it when a gust of wind messed with his head, touched it blankly when he was thinking.

But recently there was another reason that led him to ruffle his hair voluntarily, when he and John were alone at home: he discovered that John loved to pet his hair and to give it a semblance of order. First he caressed Sherlock’s head with the palm of his had, smoothing it, then he separated the strands one by one between his fingers, or massaged his scalp.

And Sherlock, who had never experienced such an intimate contact with another human being, began to ruffle his hair at all times, just for the pleasure of feeling John’s fingers upon himself.

And if the doctor had understood his strategy, he never said.


	17. Sherlock makes John pass him something

Sherlock remembered the first time that John had passed him something.

 

They was living together for three days, and they were sitting at a table in the living room for breakfast. He had taken only a black coffee, while John was spreading a dark red jam on a rusk and Sherlock had imperceptibly lifted his eyes from his paper, curious and maybe a little hungry. He thought he had been very discreet, but John had noticed him.

"Red currant jam, is a gift from Harry: she has a terrible temper, but she makes the best jam. Here, taste it."

Without waiting for Sherlock to ask anything, he had carefully smeared jam on the slice and then he offered it to him. Taking it, their fingers had touched briefly, and the sweetness Sherlock felt soon after was probably not only due to the jam.

Since then, Sherlock had made sure to find whatever excuse he could to made John pass him something: the pen was on the other side of the table? Sherlock didn’t get up, but asked John to take it. If the doctor was in a bad mood, he sighed and threw it to him, but most of the times he rolled his eyes, muttering something about the incredible laziness of Sherlock, but he got up and took the pen for him.

The tea that John made wasn’t perfect, because the doctor was always a bit approximate in the preparation: he didn’t set correctly the temperature of the kettle, sometimes he left in the infusion leaves too little, sometimes the tea became almost black. Sherlock was much more rigorous and his tea was better, but there was a reason why he let John to prepare the tea almost all the time: because, doing that, the doctor went close to him and handed him the mug.

Sherlock’s laptop was better, because he changed it often and always chose the fastest and the most powerful one, but he was content to use John’s one, so the former soldier would take it away from his hands.

Sherlock had a photographic memory and the largest mental hard drive ever for that which concerned the investigations: he didn’t need to write down addresses and phone numbers on a pad, he remembered them without any problem. Yet he did so all the time: he wrote what the witnesses were saying on a pad, tore the paper sheet and then passed it to John.

Sherlock believed that this would be the only physical contact he'd ever had with John; after all, John took every opportunity to say to anyone who wasn’t gay and that he liked women, after all, they were just friends, and friends didn’t hug each other, or hold hands, and their fingers didn’t touch willingly, but only out of necessity or by chance.

 

But now everything had changed and Sherlock was looking at that little object, emblematic proof of that change, that shortly John would have passed to him.

"Hey, there you are, I've been looking for you everywhere." John joined him, put a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to see what Sherlock was doing Sherlock, and smiled.

"Second thoughts?"

"Never."

"So come on, everyone is waiting for us."

 

John took the golden circle from the blue velvet box, kissed it, lifted Sherlock's hand and slipped on the ring.

"With this ring, I thee wed."


	18. Greg looks at Molly with hearts in the eyes

Greg looked around with the same wonder of a child who enters for the first time in a toy store.

"Molly, I... I'm speechless."

"Come on, it’s nothing."

The policeman looked at her with wide eyes. "Nothing? This is nothing for you? Molly, this is... wonderful, amazing. You are amazing."

Molly put her hand to her mouth and giggled. "Now stop, you're embarrassing me."

"There's no reason to be embarrassed, I'm just telling the truth: I don’t know what I would have done without you. I'd be dead, probably."

"Greg, now you’re exaggerating! You're getting more melodramatic than Sherlock."

"Maybe, but you remain my savior" Greg said with a voice full of gratitude: if they were some characters in a Japanese anime, the policeman would have had heart-shaped eyes.

"One thing is certain, your compliments are good for my ego."

"They are fully deserved."

Molly looked at her watch. "Oh, it's late, I'd better go: Mycroft will be home any minute, and for sure you will not want me here in the next hours."

"Thank you again, Molly, I owe you a huge favor."

"Between friends there are no favors. Spend a nice evening, and if anything, tomorrow morning you can come to me with a hot coffee and tell me how it was."

 

It was the wedding anniversary of Mycroft and Greg: the first one was abroad for work, but he was able to rearrange his schedule to return home that evening. Greg had taken a day off because he wanted to organize a special dinner at home, but unfortunately a bloody robbery that ended with three deaths and the car of robbers fished out from the Thames, had messed up his plans: he would be stuck in the office until late afternoon and he couldn’t organize anything.

At the morgue, where he went to identify the robbers, he complained at length with Molly that the anniversary with Mycroft would be celebrated with a pizza from a take away, but the girl, who was finishing her shift, had offered to go at Greg’s house to take care of everything.

"I'm very good at this: I spend hours on cooking blog, I know what to cook and how to set the table."

At first Greg didn’t want to accept and take advantage of the kindness of his friend, but, on the other hand, doing nothing, after Mycroft had done everything the could to make it back home, seemed really bad.

"Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother for you?"

"A bother? Greg, I would do it more than willingly!"

He had given her the keys of the flat, relying completely on her, and it was a good choice.

Greg looked around again: first Molly (bless her) had given a cursory cleaning in the living room and the dining room, then she had set the table with the best dishes of the house and crystal goblets for special occasions, and she had put on the table a handmade centerpiece, simple but tasteful and very appropriate for the occasion: she had overturned two glasses of red wine, leaning a candle on them, and putting under each glass a white peony and some lavender flowers; lavender sprigs were also tucked under the serviette rings.

Finally Molly had cooked a full menu worthy of a dinner at the Savoy: a salad with arugula, quinoa, bacon and roasted pumpkin, toasted bread with salmon, lime, caviar and salted butter, a fabulous braised beef with carrots, ginger and sesame that was already making his mouth water, and Mycroft’s favorite cake, meringue lemon tart.

"Molly Hooper, I have to make you a statue," Greg murmured, and when he heard the key turn in the lock, he went into the living room to welcome his husband.


	19. Mrs. Hudson is not your housekeeper

Mrs. Hudson is not the housekeeper, nor the cleaning lady, she is the hostess. The woman has always said that to all her tenants who were going to live at 221B, including John and Sherlock, of course.

You shouldn’t be deceived by the fact that she brings breakfast to John and Sherlock every morning, does the shopping for them, makes tea and biscuits in the afternoon, cleans the refrigerator when human remains are threatening to take over the food, answers the bell and escorts clients on the upper floor, soothes them when they bicker and encourages them to make peace.

Despite these and other great attention that Mrs. Hudson reserves for her two boys, she is not their housekeeper: she’s almost a mother, a trusted friend, a friendly ear, a shoulder to cry on, she’s an integral part of the Baker Street team, and if only you tried to call her "cleaning lady" in front of John and Sherlock, it's likely that your visit to Baker Street would not end well.


	20. Reference is made to John being in the army

Sherlock came home and found a man standing in the living room: he was casual dressed, had his hands in his trouser pockets and was looking at the titles of the books on the shelves.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and deduced him: in his forties, married but childless, trainer at the military academy. He wasn’t a client, so what was he doing there?

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked.

The man turned and smiled.

"No thanks, I'm just waiting for John. And you would be...?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I live here."

The man raised his eyebrows, betraying his surprise. "John didn’t tell me he had a flatmate. I'm Bill Murray, a former comrade of John."

Bill extended his hand and Sherlock shook it, simulating politeness, but his brain was spinning: John had never spoken of this Murray, and the man didn’t know him. Why John wanted to keep him separate from the rest of his life? Was he ashamed of him? It was true that socializing wasn’t his best skill and sometimes his ineptitude in human relationships created embarrassing situations, but it was enough to not even mention him to an old friend?

John came down the stairs and looked at the two with an almost alarmed look, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions: John was ashamed of him.

"Ah, Sherlock, you're back home early."

"Yes, problems?" Sherlock replied acidly, ready to be in a sulking mode.

"No, not at all."

"Hey, John, why didn’t you tell me you have a flatmate?" Bill asked.

John shrugged: "We have never had occasion to talk about that. Come on Bill, we'll be late."

"Where do you go?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"A reunion with some fellow Army mates: casually most of our friends are in London at this time and we decided to take advantage of it, we will go to a pub to drink and eat something, recalling the old days."

"You didn’t tell me," Sherlock muttered, looking at John, who had an annoyed reaction. "What, now I have to put posters in the streets about everything I do? It’s not the first time I meet with my friends, I go to the pub every week with Greg and it never mattered to you."

Even Bill was surprised by John’s reaction and did his best to ease the tension. "Sherlock, I have an idea: Why don’t you join us?"

"But he doesn’t know anyone” John said.

"What are you saying? He knows you! Come on, it'll be fun."

"No, Sherlock hates these things."

In principle, John was right: Sherlock did his best to avoid those kind of social relations, as he hated the noisy rooms, the narrow space and the people who laughed for no reason, but the persistent attempts of the doctor to exclude him from the evening, together with the discovery he made just before, that John was ashamed of him, drove Sherlock to do the exact opposite.

"I gladly accept."

"But we're leaving now," John objected.

"And I'm already dressed, I don’t even have to change."

"Great” Bill said, rubbing his hands “then let’s hurry: the others will already be there."

John did little to hide his disappointment at the decision: he sighed and shook his head as he walked down the stairs, heedless of the fact that Sherlock was behind him and saw everything.

The pub wasn’t far away, so they walked: Bill knew the way and was ahead, Sherlock and John followed him.

"I don’t think it’s a good idea, Sherlock" John said softly.

"Relax” Sherlock replied coldly “When I want, I can behave like a civilized person, I will not stand up on a table, insulting everyone."

"No, that’s not what I mean, I-"

But Sherlock quickened his pace and got to Bill.

"How many people there’ll be?"

"A dozen."

"All former John comrades?"

"Yes, there will be Ford, Tanner, Ward... do you know someone?"

"No, John had never talked about any of you."

"Damn it, then we had to fix it."

 

John received a very very warm welcome from his friends, and the were nice with Sherlock too, although it was clear that John had never spoken of him with any of them.

There was a quiz night at the pub and their table won a couple of rounds: Sherlock was versed in scientific and artistic subjects, but incredibly poor in everything else, which caused a lot of laughter from some soldiers, accomplice some beers too much. Sherlock was tempted to say that only a paramecium would find most important pop song titles rather than the scientific name of the vanilla bean, but he held back, making a great show of self-control, just for John.

After the quizzes, the conversation around the table turned on some gossip about other soldiers who weren’t there, so Sherlock got up and went to order a whiskey on the rocks at the bar.

Shortly after, John joined him.

"That's why I didn’t want you to come with us tonight," John sighed.

"What is this why? Be more specific."

"Because you're bored to death."

"Only for that?"

"Of course," the doctor replied, but he was clearly on the defensive.

"Sure."

"What got into you tonight?"

"Into me?"

"Look” John sighed again “now I have to go to the loo, but then we'll talk."

John disappeared into the back of the pub and, shortly after, Bill Murray called him from the table.

"Hey Sherlock, you can order three beers?"

Sherlock nodded and then took the glasses to the table. See? He could behave without any problem.

The soldiers were telling some was stories, and Sherlock listened to them, because that period of John’s life was almost completely unknown to him.

"Jason here has many photos of that period, he has always been the unofficial photographer of the group."

The soldier opened the gallery on his phone and showed the photographs to Sherlock: John working in the infirmary of the group, John in t-shirt and camouflage pants posing with other men, John shirtless while hanging wet clothes on a thread laundry, John sat at the canteen table laughing for something.

"Can I have them?"

"Sure, why not?"

Jason passed his picture of John to Sherlock with bluetooth.

"What did I miss?" John asked, coming back from the loo.

"Jason passed me some pictures of when you were in Iraq." Sherlock showed him the phone and John was troubled.

"Delete them," he ordered.

"Why?"

"It's just old stuff, nobody cares."

"I care."

John pursed his lips and looked seriously angry.

"Don’t make me beg, I told you to delete them." Sherlock pulled the phone away from John’d hands. "The phone is mine."

"But the photos are mine!" John hit Sherlock's wrist abruptly and the detective dropped the phone, which fell on the floor and broke.

The sound of cracking glass seemed to make him come to his senses.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

The other men at the table were very embarrassed and stared ostentatiously at their glass of beer; but Bill tried to joke.

"Sorry Sherlock, unfortunately John is an angry drinker."

It was a good excuse and probably someone else would believe it, but Sherlock read Bill’s body language and realized that it was just a white lie: John never got angry when he was drunk (and, in any case, he wasn’t drunk now), so he was angry because Sherlock had his photos on the phone. If all the other soldiers had them, it wasn’t a problem to John, but if he had them, it was.

But Sherlock had no desire to do fight right now, he just wanted to get out of there, hence he made up an excuse.

"It’s very late for me, tomorrow morning I have to get up early to go to work, good night.”

He retrieved the phone from the floor, stood up without looking at John and left the room; once home he immediately began to play the violin, because he needed to think: usually John spoke of him in flattering terms with other people, he was the first to congratulate him when Sherlock solved a case, and defended him from those who called him a freak. So why he was so much ashamed to speak about him to his former fellow soldiers?

The most plausible answer that his mind found, was also the one that hurt the most: the people who John met usually were clients, acquaintances, strangers, people he didn’t care about, while those soldiers were his friends and, of course, John wanted they had a good opinion of him, and the association with a weirdo didn’t help that.

And then there was John’s reaction to the photos: Sherlock was fascinated with John, he wanted to know every detail, every aspect of his life, even the past one, indeed Sherlock had always felt a special attraction for the period John spent in the army, it was the reason why  he had asked Jason to have those shots.

Perhaps John had noticed Sherlock’s attraction, and that was the way to make him understand that his attentions were unwelcome.

Yes, it had to be that way.

And in the end it was not a big surprise, given the countless times when John reiterated to the world that he wasn’t gay.

Sherlock abruptly stopped playing, took a cigarette from his hiding place and locked in his bedroom to smoke.

John came back a little later, and Sherlock heard his footsteps stopping at the door of his room, but he didn’t knock or come in; Sherlock didn’t care if John could smell smoke, indeed, he lit another cigarette.

Shortly after, John’s footsteps walked away.

 

The next morning the doctor got up very late compared to his standards and it didn’t seem he was rested.

"Good morning," John greeted him, but Sherlock, hidden behind the newspaper, didn’t answer.

"Look, I'm really sorry about last night, I exaggerated. Obviously I'll buy you a new phone and I hope that you haven’t lost any phone number or important data."

"But I bet you hope I had lost the photos. That is what happened in fact, so congratulations: your plan has succeeded."

John looked at him quizzically. "There was no plan, it was an accident and I have already told you that I'm sorry for reacting like that, but like I said you before, they’re just old and useless pictures, nothing important."

"And why are you so upset at the idea that I have them?"

John looked away. "It’s not true."

"You lie” Sherlock accused him “Tell me John, do you dislike so much the idea that I see your photos? Are you afraid that your gay flatmate has fantasies about you? Or are you afraid that your that your maleness would be compromised in the eyes of your friends because you live with me?"

Normally he was never so explicit about his sexuality, but he was hurt by John’s behavior, and didn’t care to use a crude language. Because that was the crux of the matter.

"You're way off."

"Really? So tell me what it is, but remember that I can understand if you’re lying."

"I am ashamed" John muttered.

"This was very clear to me," Sherlock said, trying to mask the hurt behind a mask of icy indifference.

"No, you don’t understand: I am not ashamed of you, I am ashamed of me!" he shouted.

John was sincere and Sherlock was taken aback, because that didn’t make sense to him.

"Of what?"

John pursed his lips in a bitter smile. "Have I to say it out loud?"

"Yes” Sherlock confessed candidly “because I really don’t understand."

Seeing his friend so confused, John calmed down and tried to explain: "In those photos I’m younger and in perfect shape, but since I returned to London, I have fattened, and no longer have those muscles."

"So what?"

"So I didn’t want you to see how I was before and how I’m now, and compare the two Johns."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock exclaimed vehemently; he stood up, grabbed John by the shoulders and dragged him before the mirror, forcing him to look at his reflection. "This is the man who saved my life when we first met, the man who continues to save it every day, my blogger, without whom I would be lost. I don’t need to make comparisons to find out your worth, and about the body shape you have right now, I do like it" he concluded quickly, looking down.

Instead John stared at their reflection, dumbed down. "I am speechless. Thanks, Sherlock."

How could he have thought that Sherlock was so superficial to criticize him because he was graying and fattening up? Sherlock was perhaps the only person he knew who never stopped to appearances.

"Why didn’t you ever talk to me with your former fellow soldiers of the army?"

"Because we aren’t in touch anymore: last night it was the first time we were together in five years. I guess that, unconsciously, I wanted to get away from a period of my life that will never come back again, and I have some regret for the way my career ended. Don’t get me wrong: I love the life I have now, but my exit from the army wasn’t in the best of ways."

"I see."

John turned to Sherlock. "There's been a terrible misunderstanding between us, and it's my fault, I got angry for no reason, and I haven’t given you any explanation, but I swear that I have never been ashamed, and I will never be ashamed of you."

Sherlock smiled imperceptibly to John’s words, while the weight on his chest vanished, and he stepped back to leave to John his personal space, praying that the doctor would forget quickly his words, but as soon as he motioned to withdraw, John stopped him.

"Is it true what you said earlier about you, are you gay?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"And are true also the…” John cleared his throat “fantasies on me?"

Sherlock nodded again, abruptly.

"Since when?"

"John..."

"Please, Sherlock."

"Long before I saw your pictures, if that's what you want to know."

"Oh."

"I want to reassure you that I will pretend that this conversation never happened."

"Why?"

"Because are you embarrassed, of course."

John put his hands in his pockets and walked over to Sherlock, biting his lips, as if he was carefully choosing his next words. "To be honest I don’t feel embarrassed, I would rather say that I feel flattered."

Sherlock looked at him through his lashes. "Really?"

"You paid me some nice compliments."

"Want to hear more?"

John tilted up his face toward Sherlock. "Oh God, yes."


	21. Molly Hooper is a precious buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Kidlock - Sherlock and John are ten years old, Molly eight.

Like every morning, little Sherlock was waiting for John on the sidewalk in front of his house. The cold had flushed his cheeks and his breath condensed in small clouds of steam in front of his face; the child looked up at the gray sky: it would start to snow soon.

John opened the door and came running toward him.

"Finally! I was freezing."

"Excuse me, but it’s Harriet’s fault: she occupied the bathroom for hours."

The two children walked fast up the hill leading up the school.

"Have you seen the movie last night?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock snorted: his dad had just given him a new microscope, he had no time for movies.

"I bet you were looking at something disgusting” his friend laughed “What was it?"

"A sea snail."

John made a disgusted face, then he saw someone across the street.

"Sherlock, isn’t that Molly?"

"Yes, it is, what she’s doing?"

The child, who attended their same school, was looking up at a tree: occasionally she tilted her head and laughed.

"Come on, let's see," John suggested.

"But we'll be late."

"So she will be: we can’t leave her here."

The two children crossed the street, walking towards the little girl.

"Hello Molly, what are you doing?"

"Speak low John, or you’ll scare him."

"Scare who?"

The little girl pointed a finger between the bare branches of the tree, where a small gray squirrel watched them with curiosity and no fear.

"We became friends."

"It’s winter, why isn’t it hibernated?" John asked.

"I don’t know."

Both turned to Sherlock, who was very smart and knew a lot of things, more than an encyclopedia.

"The squirrels don’t really hibernate” said the curly-haired child “they fall asleep and wake up for short periods when they are hungry."

"So now he’s looking for food!" Molly exclaimed.

"Yes, probably."

"But around here there is nothing." Molly pulled off her backpack from her shoulders, opened it and rummaged inside.

"Molly!” SHerlock scolded her “We have to hurry, we're really late."

"Just a moment” the little girl opened the package of his snack and left it at the foot of the tree “Now we can go."

Sherlock was about to tell her that what she had done was useless: crows and pigeons would eat the food before the squirrel found the courage to come down on a busy sidewalk, and probably rodents didn’t eat pre-packaged cakes, but their little friend was so proud of her act that he didn’t had the heart to tell her anything.

 

During the lunch break almost no children was in the yard, because that day was very cold, but while Molly was in the loo, she saw that there was a nice ginger cat out there, and she loved cats: she definitely wanted to pet it! The loo was on the ground floor and it was easy for her to get out the window.

"Kitty, come here kitty" she called it, but the cat was distracted, kept looking around and meowing, as if it were asking for help.

"What?" The little girl took a few steps toward the cat, but it moved away, then turned it head, looked at her and meowed again.

"You want me to follow you? All right."

The cat slipped into a hole in the fence that enclosed the school yard, large enough for Molly to pass; she walked for a while along a path that led to the creek that ran just outside the village. Then the girl paused, troubled: the lunch break was almost over and she had to hurry back, but the cat continued to look at her and meowing, like it needed something.

"I'll be quick," she said, and kept walking through the bush.

 

It was her friend Janine to realize that Molly wasn’t returned to the class, and said to the teacher. Molly was sought throughout the school without success, and at that point the teacher, fearing a kidnapping, alerted the headmaster. The hustle and bustle quickly spreaded throughout the school, and also reached the ears of Sherlock and John. The classes were suspended and children gathered in the yard waiting for the parents to take them back home, and in the meantime the first snowflakes began to fall from the sky.

"Do you think Molly has been kidnapped?"

"In this village?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose “Nothing like that happens here, never. No, I think Molly has gone away voluntarily. "

"Molly never skips the lessons, she's too good."

"Unless something happens to distract her."

"You say?"

"Do you remind the squirrel from this morning?"

The blond boy thought for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, you are right. But where could she have gone? She has been missing for a few hours by now."

"Yes, this is weird" Sherlock didn’t want to admit he was worried, but he was: Molly always had her head in the clouds, but it wasn’t like her to behave so recklessly. "We have to look for her."

"We?"

"The police think of a kidnapping, they’re on the wrong track and will never find her."

Sherlock approached Janine and asked when she saw Molly for the last time.

"She went to the loo, but hasn’t come back to the canteen, now that you mention it to me."

Without being noticed, Sherlock and John walked away, turned the corner of the building and came in front of the girls loo: the window was open and there were small footprints on the ground.

"They belong to Molly, I recognize the soles of his his sneakers," Sherlock said.

Fortunately no one was in the yard that day and the footprints of Molly stood out over all, so for the two was easy to follow; near a small mud puddle, Sherlock noticed also the paws of a cat.

"A cat! I should imagine that Molly would have followed a cat."

They also found the hole in the fence and, stuck in a metal spike, the pink wool from the sweater of their little friend.

They followed the path for a while, then Sherlock noticed that the footprints Molly diverted westward and led John into the bushes.

"What she was thinking, going so far from school? Molly! MOLLY, ANSWER ME!" John called her loudly: the snowfall had intensified and Molly had no coat on, just a light sweater.

Finally, after several minutes, a forlorn little voice, coming from the bank of the creek, came to them.

"John, Sherlock, I'm down here!"

The two children ran on the bank, taking great care, because it was unstable in that zone, and they saw that Molly had slipped down for several meters, but fortunately she didn’t fall into the cold water of the creek.

"Molly, what the hell are you doing here! Everyone is looking for you."

"I'm sorry, but I had to save the kitten."

"Kitten? What kitten? "

Molly raised a little red kitten who meowed softly, while mama cat remained curled up between Molly’s legs.

"Mama cat was in the courtyard of our school, she sought help because the kitten had slipped down here and she alone couldn’t go down to take him, so I did it."

"Can you go back?"

"No, I hurts my foot, I think it’s sprained."

"What we do, Sherlock?"

"You stay here with her, I'm going back to call for help."

Sherlock ran away,, but it would take a while for him to come back with the rescuers, because the place was quite far from the village, and since it was really cold, John went down along the bank, until he reached his friend, then he took off his coat and put it on her shoulders.

"I'm sorry John. Do you think my parents will get angry a lot at me?"

John looked at the little girl with her short pigtails and big brown eyes and the little kitten against her chest to keep him warm, and thought that no one, looking at her right now, would have the courage to be angry with her. And then, she had done it for a good cause.

"No, they will be very relieved to see you're okay."

The little girl made a precious smile. "And maybe I can also keep mama cat and the kitten."


	22. Someone assumes John and Sherlock are together

John joined Sherlock at Barts cafeteria during the lunch break, and when the detective sat down in front of him, the doctor had to admit that his disguise was flawless this time: he had dyed his hair red, had grown a neat and trimmed beard and he wore glasses. The first time John had seen him in disguise, he barely recognized him.

"Did you discover anything?"

"Maybe” Sherlock handed him a note “You should check these things"

John opened the paper and raised an eyebrow. "I have to go to Liverpool? Are yure it's necessary?"

"Yes."

"All right, after all you are the mind and I’m the an arm."

Sherlock smiled. "Don’t bring you down like this: your footwork will be invaluable."

They were helping Mike with an internal investigation at the hospital. It all began when their friend had noticed that some patients didn’t respond to medications as they were supposed to be and, by analyzing capsules and pills, Mike discovered that they weighed less than normal: someone was stealing small amounts of drugs, probably to resell them on the black market.

The police was moving too slowly, so Mike sought help from Sherlock, hoping for a quick solution for the good of the patients, and so Sherlock disguised himself as a janitor and pretended to work in the hospital; he could inspect laboratories and wards without arousing any suspicion and could keep under control almost all the staff.

After the break, John greeted Sherlock and promised that the next day he would come back from Liverpool with the information he needed.

"Wow, your boyfriend is nice, what's his name?" asked Piper, a janitor who often worked in tandem with him; she was one of the first people that Sherlock had discarded from the list of possible suspects, then he had become friend with her, because Piper worked there for a long time, she knew almost everyone and loved to chat.

"John."

Sherlock didn’t correct her about the status of his relationship with John. To be able to say  _ "yes, we are together, it's my boyfriend" _ was a hidden desire that Sherlock had, and that would never come true, but if someone saw him and John as a couple, certainly he wouldn’t have denied it. He wanted to have at least that, as childish as it was.

"You never spoke about him. Do you live toghether?"

"Yes." After all, that wasn’t a lie.

The girl opened her eyes and gave him a huge smile. "It's fantastic, I'm happy for you! When I mention the words ‘living together’ to my boyfriend, he almost pretend to be dead to avoid the topic."

"I'm sorry" Sherlock offered politely.

"Ah, now stop with these depressing thoughts” Piper stretched “Let's going to earn our fee."

"Salary."

"What?"

"We are employees of the hospital, so we perceive a salary, the fee is for freelancers."

"Damn, your guy bears you even if you're so picky? Keep him close!"

_ "I would love to” _ Sherlock thought Sherlock  _ “I would really love to." _

 

Sherlock solved the case two days later, and the culprit of the theft of drugs was handcuffed and taken away under the eyes of everyone; while Sherlock and Mike released their statements to Dimmock, John waited on the sidelines, and he was approached by Piper.

"So, Sherlock was only pretending to work here: I'm quite sorry, he was a nice fellow actually, though terribly picky: you can’t misspell a word, or he will massacre you."

"That’s not faked” John laughed “he's really like that."

"Well, nobody is perfect, but your boyfriend goes very close to that: I work here for several years and I had never noticed the theft."

"Yes, Sherlock is the best, even though he’s not my boyfriend."

The girl seemed quite surprised, then put her hand to her mouth, embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, there is nothing to apologize for." It was something that everyone who saw them immediately assumed.

"The fact is that when I assumed that you were Sherlock’s boyfriend, he never corrected me in these days."

"Really?” John was surprised, too “Well... it was probably part of the cover..." he ventured, but he didn’t really believe it: the two of them being together was a totally unnecessary information to the cover or the investigation.

"Yes, it probably is. So you don’t live together?" Piper asked.

"No, that's true, but we're just flatmates."

"I see. Well” she shrugged “say hi to your flatmate from me, then."

"Sure."

After finished talking to Dimmock, and received a friendly pat on the shoulder from Mike, Sherlock gestured for John to go, and bloggers followed him out of the hospital.

However, Piper’s words had put a suspect in his mind: why Sherlock, who was always so picky and precise about everything and always corrected people when they said something wrong, didn’t say anything about their real relationship?

To think of it, wasn’t the first time that happened: Sherlock hadn’t correct Angelo on the first night they met (in fact the restaurateur was still convinced that they were engaged), he had never corrected Mrs. Hudson whenever the elderly insinuated something, and on numerous other occasions when someone had assumed that two of them were together, it had always been up to John to deny it, Sherlock had never said a single word about it.

There was only one plausible explanation for his behavior.

Sentiment.

He looked at the curly head ahead of him and was overwhelmed by a surge of affection for that idiot.

Sure, it was also possible that he was wrong, but in the field of feelings he was much smarter than Sherlock; however, he decided to conduct a small and harmless experiment, just to be sure. He quickened his pace and touched Sherlock on the elbow, pointing to a small cafe across the street, knowing that, after the successful solution of the case, Sherlock was more inclined to eat.

"How about we eat something to celebrate?"

"It's just an excuse because you're hungry," Sherlock remarked with an indulgent smile.

"I admit it: I'm starving."

The two took a seat at a table near the window and John ordered a Darjeeling for Sherlock and a Sencha for him, then he saw an engaged couple at the table next to them, who was sharing a slice of Sacher.

"And, please, bring also a slice of the same cake of that couple, with two forks."

The waitress didn’t fail to say how much cute he and his boyfriend were; Sherlock, as expected, said nothing and continued to look out the window, but this time John was silent too, merely thanking the girl with a smile.

Sherlock's eyes moved immediately on him, questioning and curious.

"All right, Sherlock?"

"Yes, splendidly," he muttered, but it was clear that he was already mulling over that little detail.

 

That night, John made a list of Christmas gifts he had to do, and read it aloud to Sherlock.

"I bought a wooden frame for my sister, but it’s very bald, I would ask to Molly to help me to decorate and embellish it."

He had deliberately used the wrong term and in fact Sherlock corrected him instantly.

"The word you’re searching for is bare, bald refers to someone without hair."

Inwardly, John exulted: he was right.

"You always correct everyone."

"I find inaccuracy and poor grammar unbearable."

"But when someone says that the two of us are together, you never correct them." John cocked his head to one side and smiled, while Sherlock moistened his lips, and his mind started working feverishly, searching for a plausible answer to offer him.

"I never noticed," he finally said, avoiding his eyes.

"Please, Sherlock" John sighed, and the other merely shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

John stood up from his chair and knelt before him, touching his knee with his hand: the detective flinched under his touch.

"Please..." John repeated, and Sherlock couldn’t resist to the pleading: he moved his eyes on John, allowing the doctor to see the storm of feelings that was troubling him.

"Why didn’t you ever say anything?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out: he couldn’t find any words to explain to John his fears, it was too much for him, so he just shook his head, bewildered; John smiled and gently put a hand on his cheek.

"It's fine: from now on it will no longer be just something that people assumed," he whispered, before rising on his knees and kissing him.


	23. Sherlock belatedly realizes how rude he had been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Potterlock  
> This is especially for Auspiciousnight, hope you like it!

The whole Hogwarts, from the headmasters and the professors to the students, had gone crazy, there was no other explanation for the frenzy that had infected them.

The House elves were recruited en masse to clear and make the castle shine from the attic to the basement, the grass of the park had been cut with such pinpoint accuracy that even a niggler as he was, found it disturbing, the trees of the Forbidden Forest had been pruned, and all for what?

For that stupid Yule Ball.

Sherlock was getting a headache because of that damn Ball: from the morning when he got get up, to evening when he went to sleep, the students only spoke of how they would be dressed, about their hairstyle, who would have invited, what songs they hoped that were played at the party, every sentence that was pronounced by anyone contained the words "dance", "party", "fun", "music"; many of the students had already formed the couples, and those who didn’t have a dance companion prowled along the castle in panic, almost as if Lord Voldemort had returned to this earth.

But that wasn’t the only reason why the student of Ravenclaw felt he was on the the brink of a nervous breakdown: thirty-seven students had asked to go to the Ball with them, when they’d discovered he hadn’t a companion yet.

Thirty-seven unwanted interruptions while he was reading a book, doing homework for Potions, studying in the library, having breakfast or dinner, almost a siege that lasted for days; now he was so sick of feeling asked that question, he was reading a book on how to make a Cloak of invisibility. Meanwhile he walked around the castle with a bubble-spell around his head, to attenuate the voices of others students.

That afternoon he was in the common room of Ravenclaw, busy on finishing Herbology homework, when his housemate, Victor Trevor, sat down in front of.

Sherlock just needed one look to his friend to know what he wanted to speak about, and laid his head on the table with a groan of despair.

"Vic, please, don’t."

"What have I done?"

"You want to talk about the damn Yule Ball that will be held tonight."

"That's right: I just invited Violet Smith, and she agreed” he said with a satisfied smile “And what about you, who his your companion?"

"Nobody."

"Do you want me to help you find someone?"

"No!"

"But to go alone... excuse me for saying so, Sherl, but it’s depressing."

Sherlock lifted his nose from the parchment and gave Victor a cold stare. "Thanks for your opinion, of which, incidentally, I don’t care, however, the Ball is not my problem, because I will not go."

"What?"

"Has someone launched a curse on you that made you deaf?"

"But you can’t not go!"

"I don’t see why not: it’s not a school class, it doesn’t give me any grade for N.E.W.T., it’s not useful in any way, so I don’t see why I should go there."

"This is not about ‘useful’, it’s about fun."

"Look at me, Victor: have I the face of someone who is having fun?"

"Come on, Sherl! It’s an opportunity that will never happen again while you're at Hogwarts, if you lose it I'm sure you'll regret."

"I don’t think so," said the dark-haired boy, then he dipped again his eagle-feather quill in the inkwell to resume writing.

"Ah, I almost forgot” Victor said “as I was coming back to the castle, I met John Watson: he said that he awaits for you behind the Quidditch field."

Hearing the name of his secret, tremendous crush, Sherlock threw all the ink on the parchment, and had to use a spell to clean up.

"He-he a-waits? Now?"

"In the name of Merlin, chill out Sherl! It seems that you have to meet with the Minister of magic instead of your best friend."

"I am quite calm" Sherlock replied with a high tome of voice, close to hysteria.

"Yeah, sure."

"I go."

"Hey, why you don’t invite him to the Ball? Maybe it’s the right occasion to tell him how you feel about him."

"You're crazy Victor, crazier than a hippogriff” Sherlock hissed and blushed at the thought “And then, John certainly has already found some companion."

"You are wrong: I heard he's still free and refused several invitations."

"Maybe he don’t want to participate to this stupid dance."

John was a senior and was only interested in two things: Quidditch and his studies to become Mediwizard: perhaps he needed his help for Potions, even though it was strange that he wanted to see Sherlock on the Quidditch pitch: why he didn’t come to the Ravenclaw Tower, as did all the other times?

The Gryffindor boy was still in his Quidditch uniform and was waiting for him near the locker room; when he saw Sherlock coming closer, he gave him a nervous smile and the Ravenclaw boy frowned, worried, and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"John, is there a problem? Are you in trouble and now you risk to be expelled? Has anyone seen you? Because if nobody saw you, we can cover it up, whatever it is."

"Wha...? Sherlock, I didn’t do anything like that! Why do you think that?"

"Because of your face: you're concerned about something serious, don’t deny it."

"Ah... no” John scratched his head, embarrassed “It's nothing serious, I promise. I just wanted to talk about the Yule Ball."

Sherlock exploded: he threw his arms in the air, threw back his head and began to scream like a banshee.

"No, no, no, please, stop! I hoped that at least you had a bit of the brain, instead you are stupid like everyone else! I'm sick of hearing about this stupid dance, I hope someone throws a Fiendfyre in the lounge to burn down everything! Do you want some advice on the girl to bring along? I'd tell you to choose the least stupid, but since they’re all the same, choose randomly. And have my best wishes, so you can lower your IQ level with her!"

As Sherlock continued his tirade, John paled more and more, and in the end it seemed that he had been hit by a Full Body-Bind Curse.

"What?" Sherlock urged, not still realizing how cruel he had been.

"I…” John whispered with a feeble voice “I wanted to invite you, but I see that you aren’t interested."

It was Sherlock turn to be petrified, while John walked away in the direction of the castle with his head bowed, and it looked as if he were holding back from crying.

Behind him there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers, that now the wind was scattering in all directions.

"What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?" He kept repeating obsessively: he had insulted and hurt John in the worst way, his best friend, his secret crush, who wanted to invite him to the Ball.

He, and not the other girls who had come forward.

"Great move, Holmes."

Sherlock remained there and put his head in his hands, not knowing what to do in order to remedy his rudeness. Oh, what was he thinking? What he had said was too cruel, irreparable, John would have never forgiven him.

An ethereal bluish silhouette appeared next to him, but he didn’t even notice, too focused on the shame he felt at that moment.

After a time that he couldn’t be quantified, Victor came running and shook him by the shoulders.

"Ohi Sherlock! Haven’t you seen my Patronus? What's wrong?"

His housemate didn’t move, didn’t answer, seemed to breathe barely, and Victor made an angry face.

"What John did to you, did he throw a curse against you? I thought he was your friend."

"No, it's my fault," Sherlock said and, spurred by Victor questions, told him what had happened.

"Shit, Sherl!" The boy sighed.

"It's over, Vic, he’ll never talk to me again."

"Now don’t exaggerate, you can fix it."

"No, I can’t. You didn’t see his face... he hates me... "

"You have done something very rude, but it's not the end of the world" Victor insisted.

Sherlock lowered his head. "And what can I do to fix things?"

"Apologize" Victor said with great simplicity.

"It’s not enough."

"Yes, it is: listen, John wanted to invite you to the Yule Ball, so it means he likes you, and if he understands that you're really sorry for what you said, he’lI forgive you."

"I don’t think that-"

"Enough is enough” Victor snapped “You'll be at the Ball tonight and apologize!"

That said, the boy turned on his heel and went back to the castle, but turned around one last time, and shouted: "And be on time!"

 

Sherlock closed the last button of the purple shirt that his mother had delivered him for the Ball, put on his jacket, combed his hair with his fingers, and looked nervously in the mirror one last time: he didn’t believe that John would forgive him, but Victor was right about one thing, he had to apologize to John, it was the least he could do after he had said those horrible things.

The band had already started to play and the music spread along the empty halls of the castle. Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, looking for John in the midst of all the boys and girls who crowded the dance floor.

John was near an open French window and was looking outside: he didn’t seem particularly interested in dancing, and certainly he wasn’t having fun, and Sherlock felt even more shame, because it was his fault.

He crossed the room, accompanied by a nod of encouragement from Victor, who was dancing with Violet, and reached John just when a Hufflepuff girl had approached him to ask to dance. Sherlock stepped between John and the girl, but couldn’t look into his face and kept his eyes on the floor.

He had prepared a long speech to explain why he had reacted so rudely, but in the end he could only spell a feeble "sorry", and it was a miracle that his words wouldn’t be lost in the noise of the room. He lifted toward John a small blue carnation, which was part of the bouquet that John wanted to give him.

"I'm sorry” he repeated, more firmly “I was insensitive and rude."

"Sherlock, look at me."

Slowly, with fear, Sherlock looked up, his eyes travelling along John's body, wrapped in a beautiful blue suit, up to his lips lifted in a relaxed smile.

"You... you aren’t mad at me?"

"You have apologized and I know that you are sincere."

"I am, I promise."

"And then Victor came looking for me and explained why you went hysterical when I mentioned the Ball... thirty-seven proposals, I think that I would have been out of my mind, too."

"But it doesn’t justify the way I treated you."

"It's all right, Sherlock" John assured him, and the Ravenclaw boy, finally relieved, pinned the carnation on his jacket.

"What do you want to do now, do you want to dance?" John asked.

Sherlock looked in the direction of the crowded dance floor, not too keen to go on it, but since he didn’t want to upset John again, he nodded.

"Or…” John suggested with a mischievous voice “We could go in the garden to look at the rose bushes."


	24. Food or drink dramatically falls to the floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship

It was John’s first Christmas after his return to Baker Street, their first Christmas as a couple, and Sherlock wanted everything to be perfect.

He had decided to organize a romantic surprise dinner for John, so he had pretended not to be interested in celebrating anything, then he asked for help to Lestrade to keep John away from their home on December 24, to have time to cook and organize the surprise.

Mrs. Hudson had asked him several times if he wanted help, but Sherlock stubbornly wanted to do everything by himself, because it was his surprise to John, his way to tell him how happy he was to have him back at his side, so he gently pushed their landlady at the door and locked it, to be sure to not be disturbed.

He had been researching for days on the dishes and the combinations of flavors that John liked the most, carefully storing recipes in his Mind Palace, and he was ready to get to work; he had never cooked anything more complicated than grilled cheese sandwiches, but he wasn’t nervous; after all it he just had to cook food in a pot, not to defuse a bomb, it shouldn’t be too complicated.

He started to work shortly after noon: he arranged all the ingredients on the table in a neat row, first in order of calories, then in order of expiring, finally, in order of use in the recipes, and decided that the latter criterion was the correct one, then carefully chose the pots and the pans more suitable for every type of cooking, and finally looked at his wristwatch, discovering that it was 3 p.m.

He frowned angrily, as if the Time had done wrong to him: he had just sat down at the kitchen table, it couldn’t have been passed three hours already! However there was nothing to worry about: the preparations weren’t too long, save for the roast, but he still had time.

He took some platters, lost another half an hour to choose the most suitable knives, put an onion and a slice of ham on cutting board, and closed again in his Mind Palace, considering whether it was better to slice the onion into very thin slices and the ham into little dice or vice versa, and whether it was better to use extra virgin olive oil or sunflower oil, and when he returned to reality, it was five p.m., and John would be home in less than two hours.

A slight panic came over him and he thought that maybe refusing the help from Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been a good idea, but he still had time if he speeded up and put aside the details; he chopped the onions very fast, put them in the pressure cooker with oil and butter, made them cook a few minutes, then he laid the rack of lamb and closed the lid.

The words "pressure cooker" ringed a vague alarm bells, but since he couldn’t recall any significant information in his Mind Palace, deduced that it wasn’t anything important, and devoted himself to the preparation of the accompanying sauces for the roast: a bearnaise sauce, a horseradish sauce and a green sauce with avocado.

He grated the horseradish, peeled the avocado and beated the eggs, but something about the pressure cooker continued to bother him; a pressure cooker was a great tool in kitchen, which halved the cooking time, but not only: it could be turned into a detonating improper weapon, tampering with the valve which regulated the pressure.

Exactly as he had done a few months ago for a scientific experiment.

That's why the pressure cooker reminded him of something.

He turned to the stove, where the pot was vibrating as if shaken by a small internal earthquake, and barely had time to take shelter behind the table when the explosion shook the kitchen: the pressure cooker heavy bounced on the stove, destroying it, the lid bolted up to the ceiling with the force of a cannon ball, nicked the plaster and landed on the table, toppling to the ground all the sauces that Sherlock was making, and a thick, dark smoke, caused by all the steam trapped in the pot, obscured the kitchen; finally, in the eerie silence that followed, from the cooker lying horizontally on the gas stove, the rack of lamb, completely charred, slipped on the floor and pulverized.

Mrs. Hudson was immediately drew by the noise and was now frantically knocking on the locked door, asking if he was right, but Sherlock didn’t even hear her, and sat on the floor watching in horror what was supposed to be a wonderful surprise for John, a surprise he had turned into a disaster.

An absolute and complete disaster, by comparison with which it could be said that Germany had emerged victorious from the Second World War.

He had to get up, try to perfunctory clean the kitchen, and order quickly something to eat, but he rather curled up in a fetal position on the floor: he was the worst boyfriend in the world, an incompetent who wasn’t even able to make a dinner.

Shortly afterwards a key turned in the lock and the door swung open.

"Sherlock, are you hurt?" John shouted, immediately kneeling beside his to make sure he was all right: he gently patted him on the head, sternum and abdomen, and sighed with relief when he saw that Sherlock was fine; then he sat back on his heels and looked at the disaster in their poor kitchen.

"Christ, Sherlock... what happened?"

"I tried to cook for you, it was supposed to be my Christmas present," said the bundle on the floor, with a desolate voice.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John smiled affectionately and kissed him into his hair, and Sherlock took the opportunity to turn around and hide his face against his sweater.

"I'm sorry, John."

"The only thing that matters is that you didn’t get hurt."

"But…"

"I'm serious."

"But” Sherlock insisted “Now I have no gift for you and we are also without dinner."

"Oh, I do not know… I think we can still have dinner" John said with a sly smile and pointed to their bedroom with his eyes.

Sherlock jumped up like a spring, and dragged with him a doctor who laughed heartily.


	25. Free space - Johnlock on ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship

The fact that John has secretly driven up to the house of Sherlock parents just to ask them for advice on what to give him for Christmas, gives a good idea of how desperate he is.

Sherlock has almost everything: a small homemade chemistry lab that’s better than some real laboratories, clothes to no end, books impossible to find elsewhere, even at the British Library; moreover, many of the "traditional" gifts suggested on Internet aren’t for him.

John had hoped that his parents could give him a good hint, but now he begins to doubt it.

Sherlock’s parents are two adorable elderly, but they are very lame in their suggestions, because Mrs. Holmes said of mince pies were fine (and yes, it’s true that Sherlock loves them, but they aren’t the Christmas gift John had in mind) and Mr. Holmes came up with a laconic "it's the thought that counts", and both considered solved John’s dilemma, so Mrs. Holmes had taken out the photo albums to browse through them with him.

While Mrs. Holmes closes an album, a photograph that’s not well pinned to the page, slips out, and catches his eye: it portrays a young Sherlock skating on a frozen pond. He looks really happy.

"I didn’t know that Sherlock did ice skating."

"He did it for a few months when he was twelve: Sherlock has always had many passions as a child, but he grew bored of them really quickly” the woman remembers, with an indulgent smile “Another cup of tea, John?"

"Yes, willingly," the doctor says politely, while continuing to look at the photograph.

Mrs. Holmes gets up and goes to the kitchen to fill the kettle with water, and Mr. Holmes gets up from his chair, sits down on the couch next to John and takes a photograph out of his hands.

"It is true, Sherlock was a child who got bored soon of things, and we never were too hard on him for that, but for skating things didn’t go exactly like that."

"Oh?"

"Sherlock was really working hard, he followed the skating lessons with commitment and perseverance, so much so that we were told that there was a good chance for him to become a professional."

"Really?"

"Yes, he had a suitable body, the sensitivity to dance to the music and to read the skating program in a unique way, he also tried hard to get along with other children who followed the skating lessons to not upset the coach."

"Even that!"

"Yes, he loved to skate."

"And what happened? He had an accident?" John ventured: as a doctor, he knows that accidents on ice are common and can nip a career, even when you're very young.

"No, Mycroft returned home from college for Christmas, and Sherlock wanted to show his brother how good he was, but Mycroft... let's say he behaved like Mycroft, and from that day Sherlock never touched his skates again."

John nods in silence; he can picture the scene in his mind too wee: Sherlock overwhelming his elder brother with his child's enthusiasm and Mycroft, with his sluggish and indolent voice, telling him that a sport is a waste of time, an unnecessary physical effort, an activity with no intellectual value, or something like that.

"Sherlock will never admit it, even under torture, but when he was a child, Mycroft was his model, he admired him and wanted to be like him, so you can well understand how he react in front of Mycroft disinterest for skating: he pretended that he didn’t care nothing and he pretended to forget about skating, but I think he was sad to have given up."

John takes the photograph from the hands of Mr. Holmes and smiles: "Can I borrow it for a while?"

"Yes, sure. But what do you need it?"

"I think I've just found what to give to Sherlock for Christmas" John replied, standing up.

"John, the tea..." Mrs. Holmes says, returning from the kitchen with the tray.

"Another time, now I have to run."

But before returning to Baker Street, John makes a stop at the Diogenes Club.

"John, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

The former soldier showed him the photograph. "I need your help for a Christmas present for Sherlock."

 

Sherlock gives his gift to John on Christmas Eve, a new laptop (since the old one was smashed on the head of a criminal who was trying to strangle the detective) and John thanks him with a series of fiery kisses that leave both breathless.

"Is this my gift?" Sherlock asks, resting his lips on John's neck.

"I would call it more a reciprocal gift” John answers, unbuttoning his shirt “for your gift you will have to wait until tomorrow morning."

Sherlock, much to John’s displeasure, stop kissing him and stares at him carefully. "Now you made me very curious."

"Well," the doctor murmured, slipping the shirt tails from his trousers and sliding it from his shoulders.

"And you know that I will continue to insist until you tell me what it is."

John grabs a handful of dark curls and forces Sherlock to recline the head back, baring his pale neck to John’s kisses. "No, I don’t think so."

"You seem very sure of yourself," Sherlock says, his voice now a bit breathless.

"I am” John’s hand comes up from Sherlock’s right knee to the trouser button “I will distract you until tomorrow morning, I promise."

 

The morning of 25th, John instructs Sherlock to dress in jeans and sweater, not answering to any question from his boyfriend, who wants to find out what his gift is, and calls a cab. Once in the car, instead of saying out loud to the driver where to go, John hands him a note, then pulls from his jacket pocket a handkerchief and asks Sherlock to put it on his eyes.

"Do you think that I’ll not understand where we're going?"

"Well, yes."

Sherlock accepts the challenge with a smile, put on the blindfold, sits back against the seat and relies on the other senses, then begins to speak: "We have moved toward Melcombe Street, then we turned left in Glentworth Street, after that the cab sped up considerably, so we're on a fast road, the A501, we're riding for five minutes, so-"

"It's all right," John says, but Sherlock hears a small note of disappointment in his voice.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, it's just that I'd really like for it to be a surprise, and if you guess where we are going, it will not be a surprise anymore."

"Then I’ll stop to deduce it."

"No, you can’t” John says, and the smile is back in his voice “You're the way you are, your brain can’t help but think uninterruptedly and it will guess it anyway, whether you like it or not. But thanks for trying."

"To tell the truth” Sherlock suggests in a mischievous voice “if you could distract me enough, like last night..."

"Oh, you're a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes" John whispers. Sherlock feels his warm breath tickling his cheek and then John’s lips are on his.

 

"We arrived" John lets him know suddenly, kissing him one last time.

"The plan worked: I have no idea where we are, or how much time passed. Can I remove the blindfold?"

"Not yet."

John pays the driver, open the car door for Sherlock, takes him by the arm and guides his steps. Sherlock understands they’ve entered an empty building where there is a long corridor which leads to a very cold room.

A meat locker?

The city morgue?

"Are you ready?" John asks.

"Yes."

The blindfold is pulled off and Sherlock finds himself in front of the Lee Valley Ice Centre ice rink.

"You’ve talked to my parents," Sherlock murmurs, and his voice is devoid of inflection, so John can’t figure out if he liked the gift or not. He would like to tell Sherlock that he did it to relive good memories from childhood, would like to tell him that if skating makes him happy, then he should do it whenever he want without worrying about the opinion of his brother or anyone else, but he didn’t think that bringing Sherlock here, could make him remember the time when he gave up skating.

"I believed-" John begins, but can’t finish the sentence, interrupted by a long, passionate kiss from his boyfriend.

"Thanks, it's a wonderful gift" Sherlock murmurs, understanding the intentions of John’s gesture, even if he didn’t open his mouth.

"What are you waiting for? Today the ice rink is closed and it’s all for you."

Sherlock takes off his coat, put the skates on and approaches the rink with some trepidation: it has been a long time since he skated, and even if he didn’t delete what he learned when he was a child, this is not like riding a bike. But the ice has been honed to perfection and it’s hard to the right point under the skates so, after a few laps along the edge of the rink, Sherlock moves towards the center, skating fast, he crosses his feet, suddenly changes trajectories, finally he speeds up, pointing his left leg and throwing up the right one, and executes a single toe loop, landing perfectly with his arms open: it’s the most simple jump of figure skating, but after so many years he wasn’t sure of being able to do it again.

As he feels more and more confident with the ice, Sherlock starts to perform more complex jumps and steps and, at the end of a camel spin, he hears John clapping his hand: the doctor is watching him, spellbound.

Sherlock is very good, his father was right: of course he doesn’t have the ease of a professional skater who trains eight hours a day, but there is an infinite grace in his movements, an elegance in the way he flies into the air and lands, that left him breathless.

Sherlock comes up and stretches out his right arm.

"Skate with me."

John laughs and waves his hands in front of him: "No, no, I never set foot on the ice in my life, I would spend all the time with my butt on the ground."

"I'll teach you."

"No” John protest “this day is your gift, you shouldn’t waste it for me."

"If it’s my gift, I can do whatever I want, and I want to skate with you."

John gives up and wears the skates, but wonders with some concern how he can stand up on a so thin blade; when he steps on the ice, his legs stiffen with tension and, as soon as he slides forward, he grasps both arms to the edge of the rink.

"Relax." Sherlock says to him.

"Sherlock, love, I think that it’s a bad idea, I can’t do it."

Sherlock goes in front of him and stretched both arms towards John.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my own life."

"Then take my hands, and a gently push with your left leg. You will not fall, for I will catch you before."

"Okay." Carefully, John takes off his hands from the wall that encloses the ice rink, put them on Sherlock’s ones and moves a few tentative steps along the rink.

"You're doing fine."

"It’s not true, but thanks for the lie."

"It's that you are too tense."

"I know, but I can’t help it."

"I know a technique to distract the mind that works very well for both of us” Sherlock rests his forehead on John’s “Close your eyes."

"I can hardly stand up with my eyes open, if I clos-”

Sherlock captures his lips in a long, deep kiss, stroking John’s tongue with his own, and John's eyes close of their own accord.

"See? It wasn’t that hard."

"What?" John opens his eyes and discovers that they are at the center of the rink: he hadn’t fall and didn’t dragged Sherlock with him.

"How did we get here?"

"It’s because finally you're relaxed."

Sherlock let his hands go, he moves to John side and puts his arm around his waist, hugging him, and the skate for a while.

"It's fun," John admits, once back on the edge of the rink.

"I told you."

"But I prefer to see you skate."

Sherlock smiles and performs a little more for John, concluding his little show with a perfect double Axel.

"You could actually become a professional”  John says with enthusiasm, but then he sees Sherlock smile fading a bit “Ah... sorry, I didn’t want to bring up the past."

"John, don’t worry: I liked skating, but I hated everything else: the interviews, the other skaters, smiling all the time at the Kiss & Cry... no, it wasn’t for me."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock catches John’s face in his hands. "If I had become a skater, I would never have met you."

"Sherlock..." John murmurs softly.

"I have no regrets with the way my life is."

John draws them together and kisses him again.

"But I love your gift, it was nice to skate again."

"We can do it again if you want."

"Absolutely, I have to teach you how to jump."

John laughs: "It will take years."

Sherlock hugs him and rubs his cold nose against John’s. "What's the problem? We have time."

"Yes” John mutters, and his eyes shine “All the time in the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for reading and commenting on this collection. I wish I had more time to write, but real life got in the middle and I found myself often behind; It was also hard to develop some of the prompts, and I know that some stories surely aren't the best, but I hope I've entertained and made you happy for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> I fabricated some things that don't exist in Harry Potter world, like the Graduate training of Mycroft, but I needed it for the story!


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